


love light gleams

by lovelylogans



Series: the sideshire files [8]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Arguing, Baby Logic | Logan Sanders, Body Dysphoria, Christmas, Crying, Family, Family Issues, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Religious Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Runaway Patton, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, wyliwf!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:20:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 57,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24386581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelylogans/pseuds/lovelylogans
Summary: christmas eve will find mewhere the love light gleamsi'll be home for christmasif only in my dreams—bing crosby,i'll be home for christmasor: virgil's trying his absolute best to make sure that patton and logan's first christmas away from home is the best one they can possibly have.virgil's family gets involved, too.
Series: the sideshire files [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1464067
Comments: 90
Kudos: 111





	1. chapter one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few notes to start this whole thing off:  
> -the way i came up with virgil’s dad’s name is, in fact, the nerdiest naming shortcut i’ve ever used.  
> -i used a middle name generator to come up with virgil’s middle name and That popped up and then i went back and did it again and _that_ popped up and i Literally Couldn’t Resist.   
> -many, many thanks to teacupfulofstarshine for her input on this work!!!!

virgil checks the time, again. yep. still 8:27 in the morning. still three more minutes. still he’s just sitting here, waiting, staring eagle-eyed at the last remaining people having breakfast or the people on coffee runs to see if they need  _ anything else, _ just to have something to fill the time. 

he ends up just restacking the donuts in the little cake stand—it seemed a little crooked, and sure, the rest of the diner has been polished up nicely, but it’s just—they’re uneven. it’ll be noticeable if someone looks closely.

_ how many times have you seen dad rearrange the donut stand, _ he scolds himself.  _ they won’t care, you’re overreacting. it’ll be fine. they’re your  _ **_parents._ **

he doesn’t really stop, though. once he’s started it, he may as well keep going. 

it takes all of a minute and thirty seconds. 8:28. two more minutes. maybe he should wipe down the counter again, even though he did that five minutes ago. or top off the coffee pots, even though he did that seven minutes ago. 

he ends up going back into the kitchen to see if they need to add anything extra to the usual supply run that happens each week, checking the fridge and the freezer and jotting things down on the notepad he’s got hanging up on the kitchen wall—they should probably get more condiments—when he hears the bell jangle, and a familiar voice booms, “taylor, you old tightwad, you better not have done away with my son to buy our lot next door, i haven’t forgotten those threats!”

virgil grins. he hears taylor spluttering irritably at his mom. just like old times.

"where’s my son?” she calls.

“kitchen!” virgil shouts, finishing his scrawl as soon as possible, capping the pen and darting to the door of the kitchen, catching the doorframe and leaning so the diner comes into view so he doesn’t  _ look  _ like a little kid running to see his parents, even if that’s how he feels.

his mom is already crossing behind the counter, his dad trailing in her wake, and he steps forward in time for her to wrap her arms around him.

“there’s my baby,” she says, and virgil closes his eyes, really, genuinely feeling like a kid for a second, just for a second—she still smells like cinnamon and lemon-scented cleaning supplies, even after not working in the diner for half a year, and she’s wearing the same soft plum sweater he’s seen her wear hundreds of times with the same puffy black coat she wears in the winter.

“hi, mom,” he says, muffled by her shoulder.

she draws back, smiling, and keeps her hands on his shoulders. she still has the dark hair that virgil inherited from her, the bright blue eyes that virgil didn’t, the mischievous smile that got passed to his siblings. “happy birthday, bunny.”

“ _ mom,” _ he grumbles, ducking his head, and she laughs, ruffling his hair.

“i’m allowed to embarrass you, i’m your mother,” she says.

“virgil,” his dad says, mild as always. still with the brown eyes virgil got from him, the brown hair that’s just enough lighter than virgil and his mother’s that it’s a noticeable difference, tanner skin, from the italian side of the family (his last name used to be palmisano, before he changed it to danes after he got married to virgil’s mom, virgil is technically a family name, along with one of the... _other parts_ of his name) the calm demeanor that virgil really wishes he had, sometimes.

“hey, dad,” he says, and his mom tugs virgil closer so that his dad can hug him, just for a moment, before he places a hand on his cheek.

“are you all right?” he says. “you look peaky. pale.”

“i always look pale, ” virgil points out.

“not coming down with anything?” 

“no, dad.”

“sleeping eight hours a night?” he says, narrow-eyed, and virgil hesitates for just a moment too long.

“ _ cinnabun,” _ his mother scolds.

“i’m running the diner!” he says defensively. “if anyone should know how busy that is, it’s you two, but i’m fine!”

his mom pinches his other cheek, so now each of his parents have a hand on his face, framing it. “no, you’ve definitely lost weight. three meals a day?”

" _ yes, _ mom,” he says. 

“prove it,” she challenges. “sit down, we can have breakfast.”

“in a second,” he says. “i’m just gonna make sure everything’s set before i take a break. you can make the rounds and dad can go sit in a booth and gossip with mrs. torres about how i’ve been doing lately, i’ll bring you some coffee.”

his father looks mollified—which is fair, mrs. torres is a pretty frequent diner customer and a prolific gossip and as such will probably know a lot more about virgil than virgil might even know about himself—so with their coffee in hand, his parents go to make the rounds. since a lot of virgil’s regulars are  _ their _ old regulars, they’re saying hello to everyone and catching up on all the happenings of the town since they’d moved away.

his dad is deep in conversation with mrs. torres (probably somehow trying to ascertain the exact amount of sleep he’s been getting based on how often the diner’s been open early or late) and his mom is cheerfully picking a fight with taylor over all the associations he’s part of in an attempt to rise in power in the town.

virgil inhales deeply, smelling the coffee, the bacon, pancakes and syrup. it’s just—it’s nice. it’s back to the old times. it’s just like how things were before.

he serves some breakfast, and tops off coffee, and he’s hauling a tray of pancakes and french toast and omelets to a table full of businesspeople when the bell jingles again. he glances over, balancing the tray on his shoulder.

“hey,” virgil says to patton gruffly, and patton smiles at him—logan’s hidden by the way he’s been placed in the baby carrier strapped to the front of patton’s chest, but he can see the massive pom-pom on top of his winter hat moving, so logan’s probably awake and not crying, which is frankly miraculous.

“morning,” patton says. “um—happy birthday.”

virgil blinks. “how’d you—?”

“maria,” patton admits. “plus you mentioned it when we met. twenty-three, right?”

“right. well, thanks,” virgil says, and gestures to the dining room with his free hand. “you two settle in, i’ll bring you some hot cocoa/coffee?”

patton nods, and heads for a booth as virgil heads for the table and finishes serving breakfast, checking that they don’t need anything else, and virgil heads back behind the counter.

just in time to see his parents both wandering slowly over to patton’s booth, zeroing in on the baby. they probably think they look subtle. virgil quickly fills up a mug with hot cocoa/coffee, so he can rush over and make sure his parents don’t steal logan. 

“i haven’t seen you, are you new in town?” his mother is saying by the time he drops off the mug.

“he is,” virgil says, leaning his hip against the booth. “patton, sorry in advance, these are my parents, mark and meredith danes.”

“oh!” patton says, and shakes hands with his mom, and then with his dad. “very nice to meet you both.”

his parents are exchanging a glance, one of those Married Couple looks that no one else can understand. 

“so, how long have you been in town?” mark asks.

“um,” he says. “a month or so?”

“why sideshire?” meredith asks, and patton exchanges a slightly panicked look with virgil. virgil clears his throat.

“um, so, patton, look out, they’re definitely going to try and steal logan because they’re desperate for grandchildren.”

“you should have some kids,” mark says.

“ _ dad,” _ he says pointedly. “i’m twenty-tw— _ three,  _ plus i’m single, i’m not about to have any kids. i’m busy dealing with the diner.”

“well, they could help out,” mark says.

“half the reason we had you is because of the free labor,” meredith says fondly, and virgil rolls his eyes.

“if you want grandkids, bug wyatt, he’s oldest,” virgil says pointedly. “or essie! she’s getting married, bug her!”

“aw, it’s cute that you think we aren’t doing that too, bunny,” meredith says.

“ _ mom,” _ virgil groans.

“bunny?” patton says, amused.

“we all have food-based nicknames,” virgil grumbles. “they ran out of material by the time they got to me.”

“ _ cinnamon bun _ has the good fortune of offering even more nicknames, mister,” meredith says.

“oh,  _ sure,”  _ virgil says. “wyatt and essie and silas all get relatively  _ normal _ ones, but by the time you got to freddie and i it’s  _ snickerdoodle _ and  _ bunny, _ this definitely isn’t eldest child favoritism.”

virgil isn’t just talking about nicknames here, but he digresses.

“why cinnamon bun?” patton asks, glancing between virgil and his mother, a smile on his face.

“he always fell right to sleep whenever we swaddled him, so we basically always swaddled him,” meredith says. “and he just looked like the sweetest little bun of a baby.” 

“as such, he became cinnamon bun,” mark adds. 

“that’s—”

“don’t—”

“ _ sweet,” _ patton finishes, and sticks his tongue out at virgil, who lets out a theatrical groan at the pun, mostly because patton gets very satisfied with himself when he does. 

his parents look thoroughly charmed. logan, however, makes a squalling noise of protest.

“oh, hey there,” patton says. “hey, i just fed you, you okay?”

he frees logan from his carrier, and holds him in his arms, and virgil sees both his parents  _ melt,  _ absolutely weak for the presence of a baby. he’s pretty sure the reason for his and freddie’s existences were partially about, yes, free labor, but also they wanted to have a baby around the house.

his parents are exchanging another one of those Married Couple looks. virgil wants to ask, but patton’s making comforting noises at logan, and he quiets a little.

“you just wanted attention, huh?”

“oh, he’s precious,” mark says.

“how old is he?” meredith asks. 

“two months on the third,” patton says. “so i guess a month and a half, give or take?”

his parents make the appropriate cooing noises, though virgil’s pretty sure that they’d react the same way if patton had said any passage of time from birth.

patton rocks logan a little, more and more, until logan’s quiet again. his parents are Looking At Each Other like that again.

“patton, would you like to join us for breakfast?” meredith says, and patton looks up, startled.

“oh, you don’t have to,” patton begins.

“i’m honestly trying to figure out the best strategy to get you to let me hold the baby,” meredith admits breezily, no shame, and patton laughs.

“well, you can now, if you want?”

so meredith swaps seats so she can slide in next to patton in the booth, and carefully starts cradling logan, and mark gets up too, straightening the hem of his sweater vest.

“virgil,” mark says. “why don’t i follow you back into the kitchen, to help get things settled before you take a break? i want to see how it’s doing.”

that makes sense—his dad’s domain was the kitchen, while his mom had been out front. so virgil nods, and he gestures vaguely back toward the counter.

“don’t steal logan,” he tells his mom.

“no promises,” meredith says without looking up from logan, and virgil and his father fall into step together.

“i didn’t really change much,” virgil says, when they’re in the kitchen. “just rearranged the cabinets a little, and—”

“virgil,” his father says, voice serious and quiet. “how old is that boy?”

virgil hesitates, looks around the kitchen—mostly empty—and pitches his voice as soft as his dad’s. “sixteen, but he turns seventeen next month.”

his father lets out a slow breath, and says, “his parents?”

“he’s a runaway, so i don’t know them,” virgil says. “but from what i hear, it’s not good. he moved here because when he was running away he happened to come into the in the diner, and it was—”

he breaks off, remembering it, and all the things that had happened since; how patton hands had been shaking for ten minutes on either side of his first attempted call home, which he’d hung up on before the phone had even gotten through its first ring, and how virgil had made the excuse of taking a break to sit with him when he called and the way patton’s voice trembled after. how he’d used a burner phone he bought in the city to be sure they couldn’t track his call to sideshire. how he’d held logan tight afterward in an attempt to calm himself down.

how scared patton had been. of losing what tenuous new start he’d had in sideshire, of losing his newfound independence, of losing  _ logan, _ of any legal action his parents might take. how helpless virgil had felt to comfort him. 

so virgil might not  _ know _ what his parents are like, but jesus, if patton’s that scared of going back—

“it’s not good,” virgil repeats. 

“not—” his father begins, looking incensed.

“no,” virgil says quickly. “no, no—i mean, they sound like assholes, but i don’t think they were  _ abusive.” _

his father’s face smooths back into its usual placid expression. 

“and he’s living... where?”

“at the inn,” virgil says, and scowls. “in the poolhouse.”

“in the—?”

“not maria’s choice,” he says. “she offered him a room, or at least  _ somewhere _ that’s at least inside, but he didn’t want to take away business. i mean, i offered—“ he gestures above their heads. “but, i mean, i don’t blame him for not taking it, it’s for one person, not two people plus a baby—”

“not the lot next door?” he says.

“dad, that’s no place for a  _ baby, _ it’s under construction,” virgil says, and his father sighs.

“i know, it’s just—“ his father frowns. “it gets too cold here, in the winter, and i can’t imagine a pool house has much in way of insulation.”

“we’re trying to work on it when we can,” virgil says. “but—i mean, it’s been a pretty mild winter so far, thank god, maria and i have been planning on tugging them in for a sleepover when it gets too cold.”

a familiar voice coos, “oh, what pretty eyes—i know it’s not everything, but he really  _ is _ a cute baby, patton.”

“well, thank you, ma’am,” patton says, and the kitchen door opens to see patton holding logan again, his mom staring lovingly at the baby.

“we’re eating back here, aren’t we?” meredith says.

“i—yeah, yeah,” virgil says. “um—just here, i don’t think all of us will fit into the office, what do you—?”

“no,” meredith says, cutting him off. “you’re not working, it’s your birthday.”

“ _ you’re _ not working, you both retired,” virgil says.

“ _ none of you are working, _ it’s family time,” sarah says exasperatedly, sweeping past them with a tray, and his parents laugh.

“retired?” patton asks, glancing between them. 

“well,  _ relocated,” _ meredith says. “we’re making a new diner but taking a step back from running it day-to-day, you know.”

“not open yet, but it will be soon,” mark adds. 

“what’s the estimate on that again?” virgil says. “you wanted all of us to come down for the opening, right?”

“all of us?” patton says. 

“siblings—wyatt, esther, silas, winifred, and i,” virgil says. at patton’s startled look, he gives his parents a Look. “yeah,  _ virgil _ doesn’t sound so out of place with all that, does it?”

“we like old-fashioned names,” meredith says, unrepentant. 

“i mean, i can’t talk, my name is  _ patton,” _ patton says.

“and what a lovely name it is,” meredith says. 

“well, thank you,” patton says. “i thought so too.”

“speaking of all those old-fashioned names,” mark says dryly, “virgil, do you know when your siblings are coming to town?”

“freddie’s coming tomorrow, silas and essie and annabelle are coming on the twenty-third, and wyatt can’t get off work until christmas eve, so he’ll be there in the morning,” virgil rattles off. 

“ah, wyatt,” mark says.

“darn wyatt, coming in late for family bonding time because he’s held up by being a surgical resident,” meredith quips.

“whoa, really?” patton says. “what kind?”

“orthopedic,” they all chorus. 

“still a resident,” virgil adds. “but he’s doing well.”

“that’s great,” patton says sincerely. “a surgeon, wow.”

“we knew as soon as he kept picking out  _ operation _ for game night,” meredith jokes, and patton giggles. 

virgil’s found himself trying to make him laugh a lot, over the past month—when he does, it seems like the new bags under his eyes and the almost-always-furrowed brow disappear, and the transformation’s practically magic. eyes crinkling at the corners, smile wide and bright, carefree and happy. he looks like a kid, just for a moment. like he should.

it seems like, after seeing patton laugh, his mom picks up on that mission too.

she’s cracking jokes left and right—telling old diner stories, resorting to puns and knock-knock jokes, at some point, which patton sure doesn’t seem to mind—as sarah ends up taking their orders and his dad takes his turn on holding logan. 

mark danes is usually a pretty straight-faced, non-reactive kind of man, but every time he holds a baby, it gets pitched out of the window. virgil basically sees his dad melt into a puddle of syrup as he coos softly at the sleeping logan.

he kind of pouts a little when he has to put him down to eat.

after sarah darts off, meredith asks, “so what are you two planning on doing for the holidays?” and virgil freezes, just a little. he has been very carefully Not Asking that exact question, but now—

“oh,” patton says, and laughs a little nervously. “um, i’m not sure yet? working, maybe, i think maria mentioned something about holiday overtime pay—”

“you can’t work on  _ christmas,” _ meredith says, aghast. “maria wouldn’t make you—“

“well, no, but since i don’t—i mean, i’m not really—“ patton fumbles.

“right, so, work is a potential plan,” virgil cuts in, mostly out of pity, in an attempt to take some of the attention of patton. “could you pass me the syrup?”

patton does, obligingly, and by the time he’s set the pitcher in virgil’s hand it seems like he’s a bit less spooked, a bit more settled.

“i guess i haven’t thought about it very much,” patton says. “it’s not very—i mean, i’m not much of a christmas person, i guess.”

virgil frowns. “you’ve been singing logan christmas songs since december started.”

which is true—logan does not seem to be a fan of “frosty the snowman” or “i saw mommy kissing santa claus,” considering he cries whenever patton tries to sing them, but he likes “deck the halls” and “god rest ye merry gentlemen.” virgil’d had no idea a baby could be so opinionated about music.

patton flushes, and virgil immediately feels bad. patton clears his throat.

“i don’t know my plan, really,” patton finishes in a mumble.

“well, if you’re looking for a plan,” meredith says, “surely virgil’s brought up—”

virgil could kick her—he would, if the counter wasn’t in his way—and hisses, “ _ mom, _ he doesn’t have to—”

“did you not  _ offer?  _ virgil danes, we raised you to have  _ manners _ , for god’s sake, don’t tell me—“

“—well i didn’t  _ know _ if we were still doing that, there isn’t as much space in the apartment as there was in the house—“

“—oh, and you expect the diner will be open on  _ christmas, _ we’ve always done it in the diner, don’t try to pass off lack of space as an—“

“—well i didn’t  _ know, _ usually you’re in charge of christmas stuff—!”

“—we’re having it in  _ your diner _ this year, virgil, it’s not ours anymore—”

_ “ _ dear,” mark says, equable even as patton squirms a little in the face of virgil getting a parental lecture, “let’s remember that it’s virgil’s birthday, he has a friend here, and there’s still almost a week to christmas, shall we?”

meredith settles back with a huff, picking up her fork and knife to pointedly cut a triangle of pancake, and virgil, feeling his face heat, nudges at his hashbrowns with his fork, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

“i was going to bring it up once i knew the whole plan,” virgil mutters, and his mother sighs—a familiar sigh, one that’s been decreasing since his teen years, but one that still grates anytime he hears it—and takes a sip of her coffee before she speaks. 

“it is your first time planning the family christmas,” she says. “sorry. long night of travel. you know how it is.”

he does. his mother, impetuous and quick-tempered and a direct inverse to his coolheaded father, was quick to snap but quick to calm—these kinds of squabbles with his mom tended to look bad, from the outside, but most every member of the danes family knew these fights are over and forgotten as soon as someone says sorry. 

at least, it’s over and forgotten as soon as someone said sorry with his mom. mileage on that ranged when it came to the other members of the danes family, considering all of them have been called some variation of “an impossible, bitter, surly, stubborn, infuriating killjoy” by taylor doose at least once in a continuation of the “doose vs danes” family feud that had been going on for two generations. granted, those two generations consist of taylor, meredith danes, and meredith danes’ children, so it’s not as impressive as it sounds.

“it’s fine,” virgil says, and it is, mostly. since he’s the only member of the danes family who’s prone to keeping arguments in the back of his head and running them over and over and  _ over _ to see if the thousandth time he thought about it meant that he’d suddenly discover exactly  _ why _ they hated him and why he was bound to be disowned. he’s also the only member of the danes family with anxiety. so. even though he might think about how everything is about to go wrong and collapse around him—

“it’s fine,” he repeats, more for his own benefit than anyone else’s. or at least, he thinks that, but his mother relaxes her shoulders and smiles at him, sheepish and apologetic, and... and it really is fine.

patton, observing this, seems to relax a little, too.

“patton,” mark says, cutting through any of the remaining awkwardness, “you wouldn’t happen to know maria’s christmas plans, would you?”

“she said she was going to visit her son, i think?” patton says uncertainly, and both mark and meredith make noises of recognition.

“oh, i wonder how john’s doing in—was it santa fe?”

“santa barbara,” virgil corrects absently, and the rest of the breakfast continues with virgil catching up his parents on the latest of the sideshire gossip, patton chiming in, when he can. 

when they’re straightening up the dishes once they’re done, and virgil offers another refill for everyone, patton checks the time and says, “mine better be to go.”

“right, work,” virgil says, making sure that his cup is half-caf—he’ll probably notice, he always does, somehow, but honestly, the kid should cut back on his caffeine intake, it’s ridiculous—before he hands it over.

“well,” his mother says, offering her hand to shake. “it was very nice to meet one of virgil’s friends, patton—“

“— _ mom _ —”

“—and since i’m apparently still in charge of christmas plans, if you find yourself free, we’d love it if you and logan stopped by,” meredith says, chipper, and patton blinks.

“um—?”

“only if you want to,” virgil says hastily, but his father raises his voice just slightly to say, “well, since all the kids are coming and none of them have blessed us with grandchildren—“

“— _ dad—” _

“consider it?” mark continues. “especially since maria won’t be in town, and it’s baby’s first christmas, and all. i know he won’t remember it, but a parent does—”

“ _ dad, _ seriously—“

“well, think it over!” his mother declares, as she ushers patton toward the door, “and have a  _ wonderful _ day, and no matter what you decide, i would love to see your precious little logan again—“

"o _ kay, _ thanks, mom, i think patton gets it,” virgil says loudly. “you don’t need to walk him all the way back to the inn, you can go back to interrogating mrs. torres now.”

virgil takes over the ushering and ends up ushering both himself and patton (and logan, by proxy) right out the door.

“uh,” patton says. “so. those are your parents.”

“i am so sorry,” virgil says. “i think their social filters skipped a generation and then all got crammed into me for an overabundance of filter, or something. i think that’s what anxiety is, right?”

patton laughs, soft. “they were nice,” he says reassuringly. “really, i liked them.”

“seriously, you don’t have to feel pressured if you don’t wanna come,” virgil says. “they can be kinda pushy, but if you don’t wanna come, i can—”

“virgil,” patton says. “i—just let me think about it?”

“yeah,” virgil says. “yeah, of course. um. i hope you two have a good day at work.”

“you too,” patton says, and virgil watches close enough to make sure that he and logan cross the street safely, to take a deep breath, and to re-enter the chaos that is having part of his family in town.

oh, great. now he gets to look forward to  _ everyone _ in his family in town.

* * *

“ah, patton!” maria says, and patton comes to a stop, smiling the best he can at her. she’s nice. she’s incredibly nice. patton is still a little nervous around her, but that’s because she’s, you know. his boss? and landlord? even though he  _ knows _ that she’s incredibly nice.

“hello, ma’am.”

“oh, when am i going to break you of all that ma’am nonsense?” maria says warmly, before handing him a slip of paper. “now, i’ve got your schedule for the day written down, here, but if you wouldn’t mind meeting me in my office for lunch?”

“oh!” patton says, and winces when his voice cracks. “um, okay. did i do something wrong—?”

“no, no, nothing of the sort!” maria says hastily. “you’ve been a model employee. since you’ve been here a month or so, i just want to talk about how you’re settling in, that’s all. very routine.”

“oh,” patton says, and tries for a smile again. “um, okay! sure. when should i drop by?”

“noon will work just fine,” maria says, and smiles warmly at logan before patting patton on the shoulder. “now, pip pip! we’ve got a lot of work to do. it’s a new day!”

“yes, it is,” patton says, and opens up the schedule. he thinks that they’re made only for him because one, he’s newest, and on decreased hours since maria had pointed out that patton wold still be on paternity leave if he’d started working at the inn  _ before _ logan was born, but two, he’s just been  _ really _ forgetful lately, probably since he doesn’t sleep that much anymore. he isn’t sure how much of it is logan crying, or general insomnia, or being kept up at night by his head, or the fact that his “bed” in the poolhouse is a busted old pull-out bed that was a reject from one of the rooms; maria keeps telling him that she’ll get him a mattress, but he made her promise not to rush it, or anything, so he’ll get a proper bed when a customer damages one. but,  _ anyways, _ he’s been very forgetful, and he really only remembered that it’s virgil’s birthday because maria mentioned it on his way out the door. 

which he feels _terrible_ about. sure, virgil didn’t mention the exact _day_ of his birthday, when they met, but he still should have _asked_ _people._ he didn’t even get him anything, and with how fast his funds are depleting, even with a job, he isn’t going to be able to get him anything _nice._ and virgil really deserves something nice, because virgil’s been so kind to him. 

really,  _ everyone _ in sideshire is being kind to him. it’s kind of weird. because they’re not like his parents or his parents’ friends' version of kind, the “i’m being nice to you now so you’ll do something nice for me later” kind of kind, but real, genuine  _ kindness. _

cindy in the kitchen had given him a ton of old baby clothes that might last logan until he’s two, swearing up and down that they’d been meaning to drop everything at goodwill for ages now and really patton was doing them a favor if he just swung by their house and picked it up, their wife would be glad to see them gone, she’d been lecturing cindy about it for ages.

hector with landscaping had been sealing up all the drafty parts of the poolhouse during his breaks, winking at patton and making him promise he won’t tell maria, because apparently hector was supposed to do that three summers ago and he’s really just catching up on late work, and patton doesn’t want  _ anciano _ hector be in trouble with the big boss, now, did he?  _ plus _ he’s promised to take a look at the clawfoot bathtub in the poolhouse where patton bathes, where the water never really heats.

pauline with the front desk had sniffed at his hair and said he looked like an unkempt puppy and given him a haircut, for free, and then a ton of her husband’s old sweaters, because patton had to at least  _ look _ like he was proud to work at the inn, saying all of this sternly, even though when patton left he’d found three twenties slipped into various pockets that she refused to take back every time he’d tried to confront her about it.

rafael with repairs, after hearing he was trans, had donated some of his old binders for patton to use once he’s done with nursing logan, since he didn’t need them anymore, and had promised patton that this was a good place for trans people and if he needed anyone there was a group of trans or otherwise non-gender-conforming people in town who met up at remy aserinsky’s coffee shop once every month and he could give patton some of their numbers if he wanted and patton had nearly  _ cried _ . (well, patton’s close to crying a lot these days, but all the post-partum research he’s been doing says that’s normal. even without.... everything else.)

and that’s just people at the inn  _ alone, _ the big things they’d done, not even counting all the small, little kindnesses along the way—saving him a seat at lunch, making sure patton got whatever kind of cookie he wanted, helping pick up the slack with any rooms patton had forgotten, before he’d had a written schedule, picking up logan and bouncing him and cooing at him, and now logan has a cadre of honorary aunts and uncles and godparents. 

not even counting the store-owners who point patton to where to find sales or coupons or tell him when to swing by so he gets the old food they discard and donate at the end of the day. not even counting just the  _ neighbors, _ who always wave or say hello or murmur at logan, and—

and  _ virgil. _ god, virgil, who’s feeding him and helping with logan and now inviting patton and logan to his family  _ christmas, _ who’s there to listen and hug patton, if he needs it, and patton—

patton’s  _ overwhelmed, _ is the only word for it. he’s bowled over by the level of kindness here. it’s a level of niceness that patton would have thought impossible, like it’s a completely unattainable utopia. people are kind here like it’s a given, like it’s  _ thoughtless _ to be good, kind, gentle. they’re kind in the way that patton wants logan to see, growing up, to learn about helping people and being nice like it’s a given, and not an exchange of services. they’re kind in the way that patton  _ desperately _ wants to be, but he knows he falls short every time, and—and he doesn’t even know how to  _ start _ paying people back for everything they’re doing for him.

so that thought’s rattling around his head all morning along with everything else—really, it’s been knocking around up there for the past few weeks—so distracting that it’s nearly noon before he remembers that he’s due in maria’s office and he nearly swears before he hastily finishes making the bed of the latest room and dashes up the stairs, swinging around the doorframe, one hand bracing logan’s head.

“hi!” patton pants. “am i late?”

“right on time,” maria says and gestures. “please, take a seat anywhere you like.”

patton hesitates, eyes going to one specific spot, and maria laughs.

“i put that there on purpose,” she says reassuringly, rising from her desk and settling on the patterned, childish rug with, well—a nice spot for logan to lie down, really.

“um, okay,” patton says, and lifts logan from his carrier, unbuckling it, before he gently sets logan on his back. logan blinks up at him, considering, before he sticks his fingers into his mouth. patton sits back, and tries to make eye contact with maria, just for a moment. well. tries.

“adorable,” maria murmurs, eyes soundly fixed on the baby.

“sure is,” patton says proudly. 

“and he’s doing well?” maria checks.

“other than the colic? healthiest little baby there could be, the six-week doctor’s appointment was a few days ago,” patton says. he’d swapped the appointment’s time three times to make sure that he wouldn’t have any surprise parent drop-ins, but they might have been notified by the insurance company that he’d gone, so. “he’s eating plenty, gaining weight, growing even more to make up for how small he was, since he was a preemie, you know—on track for all his milestones. early, for a few, actually.”

“oh?”

“yeah! apparently, it’s a bit weird that he started vocalizing early, that isn’t supposed to happen until about two months. oh! and i think he’s starting to recognize himself, yesterday he kept smiling and babbling and waving at whoever that strange baby in the mirror was. he seemed a bit confused that there were two of me. i think he’s due to start laughing any day now, too!”

“how wonderful,” maria says warmly. 

“yeah, he is,” patton says, beaming. 

“and the... other part, of that day?” maria asks, arching her eyebrows. “you were hoping to meet up with logan’s other father. christopher, wasn’t it?”

“yeah,” patton says quietly, looking down at logan, who removes his fingers from his mouth and waves an arm at him. “yeah, it’s christopher.”

mostly, kind of stunned to see patton. mostly, kind of stunned that patton had told him that yes, running away was a serious, permanent thing. mostly, kind of stunned that patton had a  _ job, _ and a place to live, and no intention of returning home. mostly... well. mostly, stunned that out of the pair of them, it was  _ patton _ who was going to legally sever himself from his parents. but... well. patton probably wouldn’t have to grocery shop for diapers or formula or anything a nearly-two-month-old baby could possibly need for about three months, along with a few things that logan is  _ distinctly _ not old enough for—he’s pretty sure that the stuffed animals are okay, but the toys with little parts aren’t, and also that the brandy christopher got him (”you know giving a baby brandy to help with teething is an old wives’ tale, chris.” “didn’t say it was for him, mac.”) is going to turn into a christmas gift, or a donation to the inn’s kitchen, or something.

bittersweet. that’s what it was. it had felt so distinctly like an  _ ending, _ for the two of them. patton and logan had both started crying during the drive home— _ home _ . to sideshire. patton guesses this is home now.

“he was good,” patton says. “supportive of, you know. the plan.”

maria surveys him for a few seconds, before she says, “well, that’s good, i suppose. do you have a preference for lunch? i can’t remember what’s on the menu today.”

“i don’t have a preference,” patton says quickly. he doesn’t want to put anyone at the inn out any more than they need to—who cares if he doesn’t like cassoulet, it’s food that they’re  _ giving him, _ right? he doesn’t want to be ungrateful.

maria smiles at him, says “all right,” and buzzes for cindy to bring in some food and coffee. 

they drop off a tray of sandwiches, and chips, and some cut-up fruit. okay. patton can stomach that. it’s unexpected, sure, considering the usually fancy menu that the inn boasts, but—but patton can stomach it.

“so, patton,” maria says, picking up a sandwich. “how have you been liking it here, so far?”

"it’s been fantastic,” patton says honestly. “everyone here is so  _ nice.” _

“i’m happy to hear it,” maria says, and she continues to ask him questions: does he knows his way around now, are his hours are good, would he like to switch up his schedule to better care for logan, now that he’s nearing the end of both paternity leave and shadowing the other housekeepers, have any guests given him any problems, is there anything he’d like to suggest to better the inn? 

she and patton eat their way slowly through about half of the sandwich platter (turkey bacon, basil chicken, ham and cheese, italian deli) and maria continually pushes fruit in his direction.

“i swear you and virgil are ganging up on me,” patton says ruefully, accepting the grapes she’s nudged toward him, shortly after the melon, strawberries, and cantaloupe that he’s already eaten. 

“you’re a growing boy,” maria says, blasé, and patton smiles a little at that.

“now,” she says, picking up yet another sandwich, “tell me about your plans for the future, what you’d like to do here.”

“oh,” patton says, startled. “um. to tell you the truth, i haven’t really—i haven’t really thought about it very much?”

“well, rightfully enough, you’re sixteen,” maria says. “plenty of things you could do, if you wanted, and you’ve only been here a month.”

“do you have any advice?” patton asks, because sure, he may have only been here a month, but he knows that maria is  _ smart. _

“well,” maria says. “i’d wager you don’t want to be a housekeeper forever.”

patton smiles sheepishly. “no, i don’t think so. i mean, it’s great here! but—”

“but you have quite a life ahead of you, i can tell,” maria says. “you’d be capable of plenty, you’re an intelligent young man.”

patton looks down at logan, face burning, and pretends to occupy himself with making sure that logan’s comfortable.  _ intelligent. _ right. 

“well, i don’t know about that,” he mumbles.

“well, i do,” she says firmly. 

_ she’s just being nice, _ patton thinks. 

“i’d like to keep you on, for as long as you like,” maria continues. “if for mostly selfish reasons.”

“i—i would like that,” patton says. “thank you.”

“now,” maria says. “i know i mentioned working on christmas, but i’m afraid that won’t be an option—there aren’t many guests staying, so it’s down to a skeleton staff. it will be up until after new years, i’m afraid, but christmas day seems like it’ll be out of the question, in terms of pay. it’s first come, first serve, and we have some employees who volunteered for it rather early this year, i hope you understand.”

“oh,” patton says.

“i hope you have plans,” maria says.

“i—well,” patton says, “i mean, virgil invited me to his family’s christmas, but—”

“oh, good!” maria says. “you deserve a nice christmas break. i’ll let cara know. their christmas dinners are  _ wonderful, _ you’re in for a treat.” 

“i—i’m sure i am,” patton says.

“on another piece of christmas business,” maria says, and digs around in her suit pocket, handing over an envelope. “we did very well this year, so here’s your christmas bonus.”

patton hesitates. “i—i can’t take that—”

“well, of course you can!” maria says. “everyone else is getting one too—”

“but  _ everyone else _ isn’t living in your pool house,” patton says. “i mean, i-i’m  _ grateful, _ of course i am, but i’m not paying enough for rent as is, and—”

“i take your rent out of your paycheck,” maria says softly. “the pool house is in disuse anyway, the most we were using it for was storage and we have a unit for that, regardless.”

“but—“

“patton,” she says, and then, firmly, “if you won’t take it for yourself, then take it for logan. put it toward toys, diapers, his college fund, whatever you like. children are expensive.”

a beat, and then she adds, “and if you won’t take it, i’m afraid i’ll have to use the check to buy logan a drumset when he is old enough, and you will think back on this conversation and  _ rue _ allowing me to keep it.”

patton huffs out a laugh and, reluctantly, takes the check.

“thank you,” he mumbles to the ground. 

“you’re quite welcome,” maria says, and then, “some mail came for you today.”

she reaches up onto the desk, and hands patton a manila folder.

patton’s mouth goes completely dry as he takes it. “oh.”

he swallows, and opens it just enough to slide out the sheaf of papers to see the heading— **_PETITION FOR EMANCIPATION_ ** —and swallows again, suddenly feeling dizzy and very grateful that he’s sitting on the floor.

“now, i know you didn’t want my john tangled up in it, but he has a friend who’s still in a firm in-state who knows this kind of law, and is willing to do it as a favor,” maria continues. patton slowly slides the papers back into the folder so he doesn’t see the heading.

“right,” he says.

“i know you’ve been struggling with whether or not you want to do this, but whatever you decide is right for you,” maria says gently. “do not let them change your mind. you will have help here, always, and not just from us in town—you can apply for temporary family assistance, if you like. but i looked into it and it would be much more likely if you were living with a relative—”

patton’s already shaking his head. 

“state administered general assistance, then, i think it’s called,” maria says. “the lawyer—rachael, i can’t remember her last name—could probably help walk you through anything to get any help you and that sweet boy might need. i could give you her number.”

“right,” patton says, voice barely a whisper. “okay. thank you.”

maria sighs, before she reaches over and gently pinches the squishy part patton’s cheek.

“oh, my baby,” she says, “i know this will be hard for you, and i am so sorry. there is not a person in the world who deserves this level of heartbreak less.” 

patton sniffles and swallows. he feels the strong urge to look away, to bury his face in his hands, and he could—maria’s hand on his face is in no way restrictive—but the cool, reassuring weight of maria’s hand is too comforting to discard. maria gently swipes her thumb across his cheek, erasing whatever tear track there might have been. 

“whatever you decide, just... just know that you and that baby will be able to stay here for as long as you like. all right?” maria says softly. 

“all right,” patton whispers. “thank you.” 

maria smiles at him, sad, before she pats his cheek. “all right. would you like some cookies? chocolate is the fastest way to defeat sadness, you know.”

patton sniffles, again, and picks up logan, just to hold him close. “i—yeah, okay. sure. i’ll have some cookies.”

* * *

virgil has a  _ morning routine _ half because routines and habits help with virgil’s anxiety, and half out of necessity.

he rolls out of bed and drags himself into the shower. he gets dressed in whatever combination of purple, plaid, and black that he wants to wear for the day. he gets a cup of coffee, because the timed coffee machine that he got himself after he moved into his apartment was frankly a blessing. he eats breakfast—usually a protein bar or an apple or something small, which his parents would probably disapprove of, but it’s fine because he makes up for it by having an early lunch to beat the usual lunch rush—and then descends the stairs to the diner, where he kicks on all the coffeemakers downstairs and turns on the lights and then unlocks the front door, for all of the workers on morning shift, and then retreats into the kitchen to start, well. cooking.

he’s on his way to unlock the front door when he draws back and tries not to shriek.

there’s someone sitting there, leaning back against the door, so he can’t see their face, with a winter coat and scarf and hat so he can’t even see their hair or skin color or any identifying factors.

virgil hesitates, before he moves to unlock the door and knocks gently against the door.  _ please move please move please move please don’t be someone who died of exposure on my stoop— _

they get to their feet before they dramatically spin and throw the scarf away from their face, revealing an impish grin that has  _ haunted _ virgil since he was born, basically, and virgil slams his hand against the door as soon as he notices that she’s laughing, before he throws open the door.

“you  _ asshole, _ i thought you were someone who decided to camp on my stoop and die of hypothermia to make some kind of anti-junk-food statement!”

“aw, i love you too, v, the most babiest of brothers—“

“—i am  _ not _ a baby, i’m twenty-thre—”

“—gimmie a kiss!” freddie sings, attempting to box virgil in with some kind of hug. “kiss, kiss, kiss—“

“—ow, get  _ off _ , you’re demon sent straight from hell to torment me—”

“—do  _ not _ make me jump on you i  _ will _ jump on your back and hang on until you acknowledge that your favorite sibling is back in town with some outward display of affection—“

“—okay  _ first of all _ saying that you’re my favorite sibling is a stretch—”

“—well, it sure as hell isn’t  _ silas, _ we both know wyatt is an alien, and considering essie is further from you in age, this means that you’ve clearly bonded the most with  _ me—” _

_ “—and second of all, _ if you jump onto my back i  _ will _ throw you onto this tile floor, you see how mom and dad aren’t here to stop me and this is my diner now?”

“what are you, a professional wrestler?” freddie says, and virgil manages to squirm free and makes a hasty retreat to the counter. or, well, he tries. freddie is hot in pursuit.

“you realize that if you don’t  _ now _ i’ll start this again  _ during breakfast rush!” _ freddie taunts. 

virgil weighs these options, before he heaves a massive sigh and, making a show of how grudging he is, leans over to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. 

freddie gasps, and clasps her hands under her chin, making a show of beaming up at him with a loud “ _ awww!” _

virgil looks like a more even blend of their parents—dark hair, brown eyes, pale—whereas freddie much more favors their mom, dark hair, blue eyes, that same mischievous smile.

“aw, you  _ do _ love me.”

“i said nothing of the sort,” virgil says, scowling.

“and that i’m your favorite, which i totally expect to be reflected in my christmas present,” freddie continues, bouncing behind the counter. virgil makes a sharp noise at her, making a cutting motion with his arm, as if to make a barrier to prevent her from following him.

“bar!”

freddie looks offended.

“unless you’re volunteering your services in the kitchen, in which case—“

freddie scuttles to a barstool, and virgil stifles his smile. freddie’s loudly and frequently expressed distaste for kitchen-work meant that she was always out front waitressing or handling orders with their mom.

“coffee!” she demands.

“absolutely not,” virgil says. “you’re already  _ like this _ at five in the morning—“

“yeah, because i haven’t slept for  _ twenty-seven hours,” _ freddie says. 

“how is that  _ my _ problem,” virgil says, “and also, what is  _ wrong _ with you?”

“if you don’t give me caffeine, i’m tattling,” freddie says.

“if you keep complaining,  _ i’m _ tattling,” virgil says, “guess which of ours is going to go over better?”

“you’re a snitch,” she accuses.

“who brought up tattling first?” virgil demands.

freddie then resorts to the deeply mature and time-honored tradition, a response that frequently gets shared between siblings—she sticks out her tongue and blows a raspberry.

virgil rolls his eyes, and he’s about to keep this sibling bickering thing going, except the door opens and sarah walks in, yawning, so that gets put on pause as sarah wakes up enough to see who’s sitting at the counter, so virgil gets to escape into the kitchen as the whole reunion thing goes down.

if the theory that virgil inherited an overabundance of filter is wrong, then he thinks that whatever social butterfly gene that usually gets distributed, freddie stole his in the womb, absorbing enough of it that there wasn’t any left for him nearly two years after she was born. she’s always been gregarious, noisy, chatty, managing to talk to anyone about anything. virgil thinks that freddie probably doesn’t know the meaning of the words  _ shy, subtle, _ or  _ embarrassment. _ she has no fear of making a fool of herself when she talks to anyone, and virgil means  _ anyone. _

case in point: she’s friendly with  _ isadora prince. _ virgil would say  _ friends, _ but he thinks that remus is closer with her than freddie is, especially since freddie’s been... god, who even knows where freddie’s been lately? virgil’s sure he’ll get his ear talked off about her various exploits since he’d last seen her.

and she does—between ducking back into the kitchen and running out orders, freddie keeps a stream of constant chatter going like she doesn’t really care if virgil’s there to listen or not. apparently, she was last in atlanta for a casting call, which she says was a bust with a grin and a shrug like it doesn’t really matter, and she’s been awake for twenty-seven hours because she’d gotten on the wrong bus and had a detour to st. louis—

“fred, even hearing you talk sometimes just skyrockets my blood pressure,” virgil says, trying not to cringe.

“what  _ doesn’t?” _ freddie says pointedly.

“how did you confuse  _ sideshire _ with  _ st. louis?” _ virgil says.

“oh for god’s  _ sake, _ i didn’t  _ confuse them, _ it’s not my fault the bus depot doesn’t know how numbers work—“

the bell jangles, and then, “is that my snickerdoodle?”

freddie rolls her eyes at virgil, not quite able to tamp down her grin, and spins around to see their parents. 

now that he’s not the center of it, virgil can appreciate that it  _ is _ kind of funny to watch their parents fuss and fret over freddie; is she eating, is she sleeping—

“she was just telling me that she hasn’t slept for twenty-seven hours,” virgil says, fake-innocent, and squints at the clock in the corner. “twenty-eight now, i bet.”

freddie dramatically cries out “TRAITOR!” as their father immediately nudges freddie’s coffee cup toward virgil to take away and “winifred  _ jane,” _ their mother scolds, and virgil cackles.

“i told you what would happen if you kept complaining!”

“what are you, a cop?” freddie demands. “what happened to youngest sibling solidarity?!?!”

“payback for scaring me.”

“ _ everything _ scares you!”

“scaring me on purpose, then!” virgil says, and ducks into the kitchen to dump out freddie’s cup when she starts looking murderous.

when he risks peeking out again (silas may not be his favorite sibling but  _ freddie _ is definitely the one to look out for when it comes to retribution) his parents and his sister have clustered away into a booth. freddie, upon seeing him looking, proceeds to flip him off under the table, so he can see, but mark and meredith can’t. virgil tamps down his grin. 

another time-honored tradition started back up, then.

not that he’d ever tell her this, but. it’s nice to have freddie home.


	2. chapter two

so, the sky is dark, but patton genuinely has no idea what time it is. god, he really hopes that the diner’s open. he could probably steal back to the inn and see what they’ve got leftover, or maybe get the cheapest thing on the menu at al’s pancake world, but. he’d  _ really _ like to see virgil.

logan starts crying midway through the walk, so that means that patton has to steal inside the town’s gas station to check if he needs anything, but of course, he doesn’t, it’s his colic, and the reason patton doesn’t know what  _ time _ it is is because he’d fallen asleep in the  _ kitchen _ , somehow, without logan’s crying to wake him up for  _ however _ long, so he’s probably held in the crying for a while, and—and it’s still upsetting, he  _ knows _ that logan’s crying and it feels like he’s a bad dad because he can’t  _ fix _ whatever’s wrong because something has to be  _ wrong _ because logan’s  _ crying, _ but he can’t  _ fix it, _ he can only bounce logan and walk him along and hush him the best he can.

logan’s still crying—not screaming, but still crying—by the time he walks into the diner, so when he enters the diner he steals into the nearest empty booth in order to keep bouncing logan and rest his aching feet.

“it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” patton chants to him. “shh shh shh, it’s okay, sweetheart, i wish i could fix whatever’s wrong—”

he keeps talking to logan, trying to keep his voice quiet so that he isn’t disrupting the other diners, and eventually logan quiets, staring at him with red, watery eyes, and patton blows out a slow sigh of relief, air streaming toward his bangs.

“okay,” patton whispers. “okay. are you feeling better now, little love? yeah?”

logan sniffles a little, makes a babyish kind of hiccuping noise, and patton adjusts his hold on logan so he can wipe the tears off his face, and then, with one hand, smear at his own face. god, he’s so  _ tired. _ shouldn’t a nap have made him  _ less _ tired? 

“hey, what can i get—”

patton and the woman stare at each other for a few seconds. some of those seconds patton’s spending frantically searching through his brain to see if he’s forgetting that he’s met this woman before, or—

“i’m so sorry, but, um, are you new here?” patton says uncertainly.

“funny, i was gonna ask you the same thing,” the woman says, cocking out her hip. she  _ looks _ familiar, with dark hair and blue eyes and ohh.

“wait, are you virgil’s sister?” patton asks.

“one of ‘em, yeah,” she says, and gestures. “i’d offer to shake your hand, but, ya know. baby holding takes priority. i’m technically winifred, because our parents hate us all, but i go by fred slash freddie. mostly freddie.”

“okay,” patton says. “freddie, hi, nice to meet you. um, i’m patton, this is logan.” he pauses, before he explains, “we moved here about a month ago.”

“ohh, that’d do it,” freddie says, sticking the pencil behind her ear. “i moved away—oh, i guess about a year ago now for work, so.”

“oh, what do you do?” patton asks, seizing on a socially acceptable way to do small-talk, but it’s as if those words are some kind of secret code that he’s shattered, because virgil bursts out of the kitchen, eyes wild, plonking the baby carrier on patton’s table as if to prove his point.

“ _ no _ feet on my tables or counters, no  _ hands _ on my counters, do  _ not _ do any backflips, frontflips, sideflips, or fancy acrobatic tricks i don’t know the names of, and no you can _ not _ show him your weird tricks that prove that mom and dad had your spine removed at birth—“

“—it’s called  _ contortionism—” _

_ “people are eating, _ that sh—stuff is  _ gross,” _ virgil finishes.

“you aren’t the boss of me,” freddie says.

“no, but i’m the boss of here,” virgil says, and freddie blows a raspberry at him.

“sorry about her, patton,” virgil says, and now that they’re side-by-side, patton can see the whole sibling resemblance thing even clearer.

“oh, don’t be, i think she’s funny,” patton says.

“ha! see? i’m  _ funny,” _ freddie says.

“why did you stick around here again?” virgil says.

“mom and dad were going to a museum’s diorama opening,” freddie says, and raises her eyebrows for emphasis. “a  _ diorama opening, _ virgil. so if it’s between that and—”

“—not getting out of my hair?”

“spending time with my  _ beloved baby broooo-theer,” _ she coos, and virgil ducks out from any of her attempts at a hug like getting his hand off a hot stove, and patton tries to stifle his laughter against his hand.

“just—go back to the counter, winifred  _ jane, _ ” virgil huffs, and freddie curtsies and prances, dramatically, back toward the counter.

“so, she’s an ...acrobat?” patton guesses as he starts to situate logan in the carrier.

“acrobat, wannabe circus woman, dancer, stuntswoman on occasion, yeah,” virgil says wearily. “the dream’s cirque du soleil.”

“that’s really awesome,” patton says. “i went to one of those shows once, a few years ago, it was—” a time he remembers fondly with his parents, which sends a stab of regret through his chest, makes him think of the papers that are practically burning a hole through logan’s diaper bag—“i mean, wow. that’d be a really interesting job. she seems like she’d be really good at it.”

“please don’t say that where she can hear you, her ego will grow three times too big.”

“grinch reference?”

virgil smiles, just a little, and patton clears his throat, digging around.

“um—i’m happy you came over, actually, i meant to drop this off yesterday but well, you know,” he says, and makes a vague hand gesture with one hand, digging in the bag with the other, before he presents it to virgil, flushing just a little.

he’s not the  _ best _ knitter, but. it’s the best he can do really. and it doesn’t feel like even a fraction of  _ enough, _ in terms of a gift for virgil, but—virgil’s face does something at the sight of it.

“it’s a scarf,” patton elaborates, because, well, to be fully honest, it’s kind of difficult to tell. “um, for your birthday. so. happy late birthday. again.”

“oh,” virgil says. “patton, that’s—that’s really cool, you didn’t have to get me anything.”

“this was seriously the least i could do,” patton says firmly.

“well,” virgil says, and picks it up carefully, ignoring the bit at the end that patton didn’t knot very well and is therefore unraveling as they speak, “thanks. hey, it’s purple!”

“well,” patton says. “yeah. it, um. it’s your favorite color. isn’t it?”

virgil then unfolds it.

“oh, you—you don’t have to wear it right now,” patton says.

“no, i love it,” virgil says stubbornly, carefully winding it around his neck. he smiles a little, touching it gently, as if to ensure it won’t unravel anymore. “thanks. no one’s ever knitted something for me before.”

“oh,” patton says, perking up a little. “well, um, you’re welcome!”

“it’s nice and warm,” virgil says, and readies his notepad. “do you want—?”

“oh! um, one more thing,” patton says. “i had—well, part of the reason i couldn’t drop it off is because i had lunch with maria yesterday, as, like, a check-in kind of thing,”  _ and to drop off the papers that will definitely be like in the top three of major life-changing decisions i’ve made this year _ , “and apparently christmas pay is first come, first serve, and since i’m the most recent hire, i, uh. i guess logan and i are coming to your family christmas? if that’s still okay?”

“of course that’s still okay,” virgil says firmly. “that’s great. um, i will let you know that freddie will also be there, so if you want a get out of jail free card now, i can pretend you never told me—”

patton laughs, even as he swats at virgil. “she’s your  _ sister.” _

“yeah, i  _ know,” _ virgil says. “which is why i’m offering you the get out of jail free card.”

“i dunno, it seems like it’ll be kinda fun,” patton says. “i’m an only child, so. siblings are kind of a mystery to me.”

“god, i wish that were me,” virgil mutters under his breath. 

“it’ll be fun!” patton says. “you called your sister by her full name, am i gonna hear you get middle-named by your parents, at some point?”

( _ god, _ virgil hopes not; he’d panicked a couple weeks ago when patton had been talking about names, said that his “oh, my confirmation name was thomas” and patton had gotten so excited about him and logan and virgil being “middle name twins! or, triplets, i guess!! that’s so cool!!” and virgil had said “HAHA YEAH HOW COOL IS THAT” all while dedicating himself even  _ more _ to locking down his full name so no one will hear it, because god virgil  _ wishes _ his name was virgil thomas!)

“uh, maybe,” and then, “what do you want for dinner?”

_ oh, so it’s  _ **_dinner_ ** _ time, _ patton thinks. he’d been a little nervous he’d slept straight through the night, almost to the dawn. according to the stuff he’s been reading, that probably won’t happen for another month and a half, and for it to happen  _ regularly  _ until logan hits six months. 

“hot cocoa/coffee,” he starts, and virgil groans, and logan makes a babyish noise, as if to support patton, and patton decides to resort to using the baby to get him caffeine.

it’s worked before, and patton’s banking on it working again.

(it does.)

[]

it takes patton slightly embarrassingly too long to tune in to the abnormal thing on his schedule, the next morning.

it’s probably because patton got about an hour of sleep in snatches, between trying to calm logan and when he was lying on his back, staring sleeplessly at the cracked ceiling of the poolhouse, turning the emancipation situation over and over and over in his head.

because on one hand, he fills out the emancipation form. which is the logical thing to do, at this point—sixteen-year-olds can file for emancipation and teen parents have an even better chance of getting approved, especially since he has a job and a place to live. he fills out the emancipation form, he stops feeling the urge to look over his shoulder all the time, no more fear of his parents sending a detective after him to try to find him or anything—honestly, he’s surprised they didn’t file a missing persons report. he knows they haven’t, he’s been checking.

but he files for emancipation. and then what? his parents would  _ hate _ him. any chance patton might have at forgiveness gets slimmer and slimmer by the day, like a rope fraying, a rope he’s clinging to despite the fact that he’s got a pretty decent foothold in the mountain that he’s climbing, and filing for emancipation would be like taking out an axe and chopping the rope so with one misstep he’d start free-falling. emily and richard sanders are proud people. patton filing for emancipation would be like a slap in the face.

and then what? they’d be  _ furious _ with him. they might never, ever forgive him. they might never even  _ talk _ to him again.

and on the other hand, if he doesn’t—then that means that that looming threat of being dragged back home still hangs heavy over his head. and then what? he’d be locked up in his room, for the next two years, at least? thrown back into chilton? sent right back to his life _before,_ before he’d gotten a taste of a world being free of being emily and richard sanders’ child _first_ and the continuation of the sanders line _second_ and any anything about himself third, of being expected to go to an ivy league and be a house spouse and join a thousand societies and go to a hundred balls and luncheons and meetings a year and just, what? be a pretty bird, in a gilded cage, and miss any chance of seeing logan through these baby years and his childhood? maybe even be forced to give logan _away,_ or make him be kept at his parents’, be logan’s older “brother.” he doesn’t even _know_ what they’d do to him—and that would be the _nice_ option.

but. but, if he doesn’t... his parents might forgive him for running away. oh, not immediately, of course not. but there’d be a hell of a lot better chance of them forgiving him if he doesn’t actively turn away.

yeah. so. patton’s lost a lot of sleep he’s got a lot on his mind. he missed something atypical on his schedule. he’s tuned into it just in time.

so, he manages to tidy up the last room before his lunch break a bit quicker than usual, and, after being waylaid by changing logan, manages to slide into the kitchen.

“sorry,” patton pants. “am i—am i late?”

“you’re early, actually,” cindy says, and patton blows out a slow breath of relief, trying not to clutch the stitch in his side.

“good! good, i was worried i’d be late. um—how do holiday parties usually go around here?”

“oh, they’re pretty casual here,” cindy says. “eat some snacks, drink some drinks—well, you’ll be having soda, i guess—play some music, you know. casual. maybe a game, if someone gets  _ too _ into it, but it’ll be charades or some other party game like that.”

“uh-huh,” patton says, whose experience with  _ christmas parties _ are mostly his parents formal events with the really good apple tarts and really terrible small talk, “casual, okay. i can do that.”

“and probably,” they say, with a wry smile, “a round of pass-the-baby, but that’s pretty normal around here now.”

“well, as long as everyone washes their hands, i’ll be fine with that,” patton says, already moving to remove the baby carrier (and logan  _ in _ the baby carrier) from his chest. 

“since they’re coming into my kitchen, they better be,” cindy says.

their coworkers start gradually filtering into the kitchen over the course of the next few minutes; patton hands logan over to rafael, as he makes the first claim and is the first to finish washing his hands to cindy’s satisfaction. patton’s kind of glad, because he can chit-chat pretty easily with rafael; he usually ends up hovering nervously the whole time anyone else is holding logan, so this at least gives him an excuse other than looking like a hysterical, overprotective nervous nelly.

"so,” patton says, “do you have any plans for the holidays?”

it turns out raf’s wife is jewish, so they’re celebrating hanukkah already (”it’s not as major a holiday as, like, rosh hashanah or yom kippur, but she loves latkes, so i’m going to eat potatoes for the whole holiday, which is the opposite of a problem”) so they’re already in the middle of their holiday celebration. 

and then hector wants to hold logan, so patton starts talking to hector—he’s going to see his daughter and his granddaughters, and he hands logan back in time to dig out photos and proudly show them off (which frankly is the exact kind of dad and, oh god,  _ potential grandpa _ he wants to be) chattering patton’s ear off about how little ana is so smart, reading already, and sofia might only be a bit older than logan but she’s already a strong one, nearly broke his finger with how strong she was holding it last time. 

and then logan starts fussing, so patton takes him and ducks into the nearest unoccupied room to check on him, and when he walks out—

“oh! excuse me,” patton says, before he realizes who he’s talking to.

“not a problem at all,” meredith says warmly. “oh, hello, logan!”

“can you say hello?” patton prompts, even though he knows it’s about eleven months until logan will start using basic words like  _ hello _ or  _ bye-bye, _ but he doesn’t so much as babble.

patton smiles apologetically, but she laughs.

“he’s a newborn, i don’t expect any of that yet,” she says reassuringly. “i heard from virgil that we can expect to see you at the family christmas?”

“oh, yes,” patton says, shifting logan in his arms. “turns out holiday pay is a first come, first serve thing, which i probably should have expected. thank you again, so much, for inviting me, by the way,” he adds hastily—he can hear his mother lecturing him about rudeness now, and then even the thought of his mom makes him sad—and she smiles.

“well, it’s just nice to meet a friend of virgil’s after,” she says, hesitates, and continues, “well, it’s just nice to meet one of virgil’s friends.”

that’s a strange way to put it. look, patton knows he’s practically sleepwalking, but that’s a strange way to put it, right?

“well, it’s nice of you to have us,” patton says.

“oh, my, what do we have here?” maria asks, as she comes down the hall. “patton, i hope she’s not corrupting you.”

“maria,” meredith says warmly.

“no, no, not at all,” patton says. “um, i was just thanking her for inviting me to the family christmas.”

maria smiles at meredith, putting a hand on patton’s shoulder. “well, how nice! i hate to steal patton from you, meredith, it’s just that if my employees don’t have a baby in the room i fear they’ll riot. honestly, they’ve been the best-behaved they’ve been in years when there’s a baby to be held.”

“why do you think mark and i kept having them?” meredith says dryly.

“we should get coffee, sometime, before you leave for the holiday,” maria says. 

they exchange a look that’s a bit too loaded for patton’s exhausted, sad brain to unparse right now.

“so lovely to see you back in town!” maria says, patting patton’s shoulder, which he takes as his cue to go.

“coffee, maria, really, i know where to find you,” meredith, and adds, “i’ll see you three later!”

“bye, mrs. danes!” patton calls.

“it’s  _ meredith—” _

“oh, mer, i’ve been trying to break him of his manners for a month,” he can hear maria say as he edges back into the kitchen, “i wish you luck with it.”

he enters the kitchen, and someone is at his side.

“i’ve washed my hands,” pauline says stiffly, and patton grins.

“pauline, would you like to hold the baby?”

“if you insist,” she says, as if she does not immediately cuddle logan close to her as soon as patton puts him in her arms, logan’s chubby fists opening and closing as he reaches for the fine silver chain that supports the modest, everpresent cross that hangs from pauline’s neck.

there’s the soft  _ ting-ting-ting, _ and patton turns his attention to maria, who’s holding a glass and spoon aloft. 

"i’d say i’ll keep it short, but all of you know much better than that,” maria says cheerfully, to a chorus of chuckles. “now! it’s been a wonderful year so far, and i have high hopes that it will continue to be a wonderful year when i leave you all to fend for yourselves after tomorrow. and to ensue in our yearly tradition—”

“our yearly what?” patton says in an undertone to pauline, but pauline’s handing logan back and everyone’s getting up and standing in a circle, so patton hastens to follow.

“now,” meredith says, “we’ll start with cara, and move down the line.”

with a rush of  _ aww _ s and chuckles, cara walks into the center of the circle with a bowed head and flushing cheeks. 

_ what’s happening? _ patton would ask, except everyone so clearly knows what’s happening already, so he just sinks a little further back into the round to see what—

“cara,” pauline says, “you are a great speaker. you have a natural ability to best explain to guests any plans thoroughly and articulately, all while answering any questions before they can be asked.”

“aw, thanks, pauline,” cara mumbles, face still bright red.

“cara,” rafael says, “you can solve problems for me in ten minutes that would take me six weeks to figure out.”

_ oh, _ patton realizes.  _ it’s a compliment train. _

“cara,” maria says warmly, “i know that when i leave for the day, or i’m not there, i am leaving the inn in spectacular, capable hands, and i know that any inn you decide to work in once you’re done with your degree will be just about the luckiest inn in the world.”

and round and round they go, until they get to patton, who says, “cara, you really helped me settle in here, and i always know that when i walk by the front desk i’ll be greeted with a kind word and a smile. you’ve been so gentle with logan, which sets me at ease faster than anything when someone holds logan. you’ve given me a lot of comfort and i really hope you have a lovely holiday with even half the tenderness you’ve shown him, because you really deserve it.”

“oh,” cara says, a little choked up, “thanks, patton.”

“and let’s give it up for cara, everyone!” maria says, and everyone applauds. 

hector, rafael, cindy, maria, more and more, every employee of the inn has their time in the center of the circle. patton tries his hardest to impress on each and every one of them how welcome he feels, how grateful he is for them helping them, and he knows it’s not enough, not even close to enough, but the looks on their faces at least make patton feel like he’s at least  _ started _ to pay them back somehow, and then—

“last of our new hires but  _ certainly _ not least,” maria says warmly, “patton.”

patton’s face feels like it’s on fire, and he tightens his hold on logan as he steps cautiously into the center of the circle. 

“you parent us so effectively, and we’re  _ older _ than you. logan’s going to turn out so well with you there to teach him everything—you are such a mixture of a teddy bear and a papa bear and i love it!”

“patton, you always try to build everyone up and you’re always so supportive of everything anyone does—you’re encouraging, and you always make an effort to reach out and compliment someone, which really means a lot to me when i’m having a rough time.”

“patton, you always try your hardest to do the right thing, and whether it’s as big as raising that beautiful baby of yours or as small as messing up a customer’s bed, you will always, always strive to make it better than it was before.”

“you are such a nurturing, loving, caring friend, and you are already an amazing father. logan is going to be so lucky to grow up with a dad as kind, understanding, and supportive as you.”

“patton, you always try to greet everyone with a smile and you are such a ray of sunshine to absolutely everyone you meet, it’s incredible. you are just such a... such a  _ good _ person, like, disney levels of  _ good, _ it’s almost like birds should do your hair every morning.”

around and around and around it goes, and when it gets to maria she steps forward, face creased with concern, and that’s when patton realizes he’s crying. 

“sorry,” he gasps out, and sniffs, loudly, wiping under his eyes with his sleeve. “sorry, sorry, i’m sorry—“

“oh, honey, you don’t need to be sorry,” maria says. “if this is too much—“

“no,” patton says, and tries for a wobbly smile. “sorry, um, it’s—it’s hormones, i think, i’m okay, i’m just—” he swallows, and forges on. “i’m just really grateful for how kind and welcoming everyone has been, and everyone—everyone’s been so  _ nice _ to me, and i just—”  _ don’t deserve this, i don’t  _ **_deserve_ ** _ this, why are you being so nice to me? i’m  _ **_me,_ ** _ you shouldn’t be so nice to  _ **_me,_ ** _ “ _ thank you.”

maria gently wraps an arm around his shoulders. “do you think you can handle one more?”

patton, sniffling, nods, smearing his sleeve under his eyes again.

“you have been,” she says, “a  _ spectacular _ new hire. you’ve been a great employee, you’ve caught up well with your training, you clearly get along well with your coworkers—“

a rush of agreeing noises pour forth, and patton sobs, just a little, and maria squeezes him around the shoulders.

“—you have been so kind and welcoming. guests take notice, and we have taken notice, and patton—you are welcome to stay here for as long as you like, as long as you  _ need.  _ i think that you are a remarkable young man who is working through a variety of unfortunate circumstances, but you face them admirably with a level of strength that i marvel at every day. even with everything that has happened to you, you have not let that affect you, and you remain to be one of the most unique, shining rays of kindness that i have ever met. you are gentle, and sweet, and a good father, and a good boy, who i would be privileged to watch grow into a good man. you are welcome here, and you are loved. more than you know.”

he’s trying to look at maria, but her face is blurring up and he can feel his face crumpling up, and there’s something lodged in his throat that won’t let him say “thank you” in anything louder than a rasp.

“yeah, we love you, patton,” rafael says warmly, as maria draws him in for a hug.

“we love you, patton!” cindy.

_ “te amo como un hijo!” _ hector.

patton buries his face in maria’s shoulder, just for a second, trying to get it together enough to thank them, to try to communicate how much it  _ means _ to him, how much he loves it here, and how much of that is due to the people.

whatever he says, he knows it won’t be enough.

it won’t ever be enough.

but, patton thinks, as maria squeezes his shoulder and murmurs “truly, we do,” in his ear, maybe it can be a start.

* * *

patton doesn’t even know what  _ day _ it is, really, but cara had been put under instructions re: making patton go for walks and eat something other than inn leftovers, so she’s shooed him out of the front room for dinner. taking logan on a walk and getting some fresh air sounds like a great idea, until—

“oh,  _ shoot,” _ patton says in an undertone, as soon as he feels the familiar  _ plop! _ of a cold drop on his head, and immediately places a protective hand over logan’s head as he rushes for safety under the nearest building’s eaves.

and not a moment too soon—it seems like as soon as he gets safely under the roof, that weird precipitation that’s somewhere between rain and snow pours upon the sidewalk, and patton directs a stream of air toward his bangs.

right. he’s stuck here, then, at the...

oh.

he’s at the church.

he’s  _ seen _ the church, of course; it’s within eyesight of the diner, near the center of town, so of course he’s  _ seen _ it. he knows that the priest and the rabbi share the space, since the town is so tiny it can’t really justify two separate places of worship, so all of them shared the historical building. it’s pretty, and big, but nothing like the stone behemoth that his parents usually attended—this is white, with a big black door and a steeple, just big enough that it would hold a congregation. 

he hasn’t been to this one. he hasn’t been to a church in a while, actually. well, he’d gone before he’d told his parents about pregnancy, trying to win them over before he had to dump life-changing news on them, too, but prior to  _ that _ had been them inviting over reverend boatwright to talk to patton about the gift of his “virtue” and that had gone over with about the grace and subtlety of a lead balloon. he hadn’t been to church in a long time, really. ever since, well—ever since he realized he was a  _ he. _

his feelings toward church have skewed toward complicated since then.

patton chews at his lip. on one hand, it’s the middle of the day, but on the other, it’s in the middle of the christmas season, which meant that there might be a service, which he  _ really _ doesn’t want to interrupt. he can peek in and see if it’s busy, he figures. that’d be a good compromise.

still keeping his hand over logan’s head, in case of any stray raindrops, he slowly ascends the stairs and reaches the big black door, which has two signs on it. patton squints, adjusting his glasses to read them—one details the jewish services, the other christian. both say  _ all are welcome. _

apparently, there isn’t much going on right now, but they’ve got something happening soon.

patton takes his chances. he takes a deep breath. he eases open the door as quietly as he can. 

no one’s in the opening section of the church. it feels strangely anticlimactic.

patton cautiously removes logan from his chest, adjusting so that he’ll cradle logan in his arms instead, and settles carefully on one of the benches that’s relatively out of the way.

“all right, love, we’ve got some time to kill,” patton says. “how’s your day been?”

logan babbles at him, and babbles even more, culminating in waving his arms around and a  _ smile,  _ and patton makes a shocked face.

“goodness, you did all that?! where was i, for all this?”

logan pulls a face at him, scrunching up his nose, as if to say  _ silly daddy, _ and patton laughs.

“yeah, you’re right, i’m sure,” patton says, and surveys his surroundings. it’s decorated, but not in the way he’d expect; cloths of gold and silver descend from the ceiling, like streamers, almost, a christmas tree in a corner, menorahs gleaming proudly in the windowsills, a manger tucked away in an alcove, poinsettias overflowing from anything that might have been an empty space. it’s warm in here, really—warmer than patton would expect.

logan babbles more— _ pay attention to  _ **_me!_ ** _ — _ and patton obligingly turns his attention back to him, tickling logan’s belly, feeling his heart swell up as logan smiles again. 

god, patton had had no idea he could love someone so much.

patton leans to kiss logan on the forehead, before he asks, “tummy time, d’you think?”

logan doesn’t really respond. which is fair, he’s a baby.

“tummy time it is,” patton says, and carefully adjusts so that he’s lying on the bench, legs awkwardly splayed and spilling over the edges so that he can stay balanced, and carefully eases logan onto his chest, on his stomach. he is kind of worried that logan isn’t getting enough time on his stomach, since patton carries him around so much and then when patton’s sleeping he’s in the crib, so he’s trying to do it more and more. the trouble is, it’s difficult to do that when his job has him on his feet so much.

logan thumps his fist on patton’s chest, and patton tries not to wince, before logan settles in place.

“there we go,” patton says. honestly, he’s not very comfortable at all, but, well. as long as logan is, that’s what matters. “how about that, huh?”

logan settles, and so does patton.

it’s been a fairly calm day. even though the holidays mean that there’s a lot of people flocking to sideshire to see relatives, everyone’s so frequently out of their rooms that it’s been easy for him to steal into rooms and tidy them up. a lot of employees are taking leave for their holiday plans, maria included, but it seems to even out.

really, patton’s kind of at a loss—he isn’t sure if this is a holiday thing, or if it means he’s getting used to the way things go here. on one hand, he’s happy about that. he  _ likes _ it here, he wants to stay here, and it’s a good sign that he’s settling. on the other...

well, he’s settling  _ here. _ not back with his mom and dad. thoughts of going back to school at chilton are starting to seem strange, foreign; why would he need to learn geometry proofs? that isn’t going to help him take care of his  _ baby. _

patton lets out a sigh, watching logan rise and fall on his chest, and fixes his eyes on the ceiling.

he’s spent his nights since he got the papers biting his nails down to the quick and worrying about this. he won’t worry about it now.

he  _ won’t. _

honestly, if he wasn’t so uncomfortable on this bench, he’d be close to falling asleep. the sound of the rain pattering on the roof and pavement, the warmth of the room, the gentle twinkling lights strung about the room—there’s something inherently calming about it.

of course, that’s when logan starts crying.

“oh, honey,” he says, dismayed, sitting up carefully, “oh, oh, what’s  _ wrong, _ sweetheart?”

he doesn’t need a diaper change, and, after a quick sojourn to the bathroom (god, patton  _ loves _ the prolific presence of unisex, family restrooms in sideshire, no gender strangeness about going into the one that usually has a changing table and no lack of a changing table when he goes into the one for the gender he is) logan isn’t hungry, which means it’s probably colic, which means that patton has to, mostly, wait it out.

patton mumble-sings “blue christmas” as he walks laps around the church’s reception area, bouncing logan as he goes, and then “rudolph the red-nosed reindeer,” then “joy to the world,” then “twelve days of christmas.” none of them really help, and patton keeps darting nervous glances toward the church, hoping that the crying baby isn’t disturbing whatever might be going on in there, and—

“oh, i don’t think i know you,” and patton turns, flustered, patting logan on the back.

“i—no, i’m new in town,” patton says. “i’m so sorry, usually i’d take him outside, but with the rain—“

“no, no,” the reverend says—and he has to be a priest or a reverend, he’s wearing the clerical collar—and gestures. “just david and i here, decorating the main space. is it colic?”

patton huffs a breath toward his bangs, trying to get his curls out of his eyes. “yeah, how’d you know?”

he smiles. “lucky guess. how old is he?”

“about seven weeks.”

“i’ve seen babies for baptisms for years. may i—?”

“oh!” patton says, even more flustered. “um, of course, sure, just—”

pattno carefully hands over logan, and, with a practiced, professional flip that still makes patton jolt forward, heart in his throat, hands up as if to catch logan if he dropped him, the priest positions logan so that he’s on his stomach, his head still pillowed by the priest’s elbow, body balanced along his arm, and, with several firm pats to logan’s back, logan hiccups and falls silent.

“i,” patton says, “how did you—how did you just do that?”

“colic carry,” the priest says, lifting logan slightly, as if in demonstration. “uncommon trick, and really it doesn’t usually work this quickly, but. still useful.”

“oh,” patton says, breathless. “i—thanks.”

“you’re welcome,” he says. “your name...?”

“oh!” patton says, shaking himself. “right, i’m sorry—i’m patton, i moved here about a month ago.”

“archie skinner,” he says. 

“nice to meet you,” patton says. “would you mind, um. showing me how to hold him like that?”

the priest smiles, and shows patton how to position his arm, before he gently transfers logan back to him, and patton adjusts to this new, unfamiliar, frankly miraculous way to hold him.

“forgive me for asking, but are you religious?” archie asks. “i don’t think i’ve seen you, but of course you might be more familiar with david—“

“i,” patton begins, and huffs a breath. “to be fully honest, that’s a good question.”

“oh?”

“i used to go to church a lot more when i was younger,” patton explains. “but then i, um, well. at my parents’ church, they didn’t seem very pleased that i was... well, like i am.”

archie frowns. “i’m sorry you had that experience.”

“yeah, well,” patton says, and shrugs, mindful of how he’s carrying logan. “it is what it is, i guess.”

“well, i’d invite you to sit in, if you like,” archie says, “except for the next few hours, we’ll be doing reconciliation.”

patton frowns. “i thought that was an easter thing?”

“traditionally, yes,” archie says. “however, some parishioners prefer a more frequent opportunity, so we do it once every three months or so.”

patton absorbs this, and archie gestures.

“well. if you and—?”

“logan.”

“—logan would like to come in, we certainly won’t make you sit out here to wait out the rain.”

“thank you,” patton says, and he follows him into the (church? temple?) worship space. 

there is a man with a yarmulke in a corner—david barans, the rabbi, patton guesses—who’s making sure that a gold cloth stays affixed, as archie disappears into the confessional.

eventually, david leaves too, and patton slowly relaxes back into the pew as people slowly filter in.

he falls back into the sort of lull he’d been in before—the rain, the soft piano music in the background, the low, flickering light of the candles, logan falling asleep and  _ staying _ asleep when patton cautiously eases back onto the pew and sets logan on his chest for pseudo-tummy-time, cradling logan’s head—and startles a little when someone sits beside him.

“i didn’t know you were catholic,” pauline comments, and patton rubs at his eyes.

“mostly on a technicality,” patton says. “went to church growing up, that kind of thing.”

pauline nods. “well. reverend skinner has good sermons each week, if you’d like to join.”

“i’ll think about it,” patton says, and shrugs. “weekend hours, you know.”

“yes,” pauline says. “i do.”

a long pause.

pauline’s an older lady, with hair that’s a strange shade between blonde and gray, and an ever-present cross around her neck. she almost always wears twinsets, sweaters and slacks, skirtsuits that remind him of his mom, tights that never have runs in them, sensible, neutral-colored heels. her hair’s cropped close to her head. it’s curling a little, just at the edges, probably from the stray drops of rain that had gotten to her, despite the umbrella folded up in her left hand. 

“are you going to penance?”

“oh—i, um, i just got caught up in the rain and i ran for cover, ‘cause, you know,” patton says, lifting logan ever so slightly.

“hm,” pauline says. “well, you might think about it. i’ve found that penance always gives me a great clarity of mind. it may be difficult, but when i walk out of the church, i feel... lighter. it might give you some form of closure. perhaps it would help.”

patton sits, silent, not quite able to meet her eyes.  _ yeah, patton, starting to cry because people were too nice to you at the christmas party was a great move. _

“i know you’ve had quite a year,” she says. “acknowledging that may help you move forward, in anticipation of the new year. but either way,” pauline says, and offers her hand. “though it’s not mass... may peace be with you.”

patton smiles, and shakes her hand. “peace be with you.”

“i hope that for you,” pauline says. “genuinely. i wish for you to move forward and achieve some kind of peace.”

patton folds his lip under his teeth and swallows. “thank you,” he croaks. “that’s—that’s very nice, pauline. i appreciate it.”

pauline nods, and she stands, smoothing her hands down her skirt, before she moves to where the line has dwindled to one person for reconciliation.

_ penance always gives me a great clarity of mind. it might give you some form of closure. i wish for you to move forward and achieve some kind of peace. _

patton blows out a slow breath. “all right,” he says under his breath. “what could it hurt?”

and so, after pauline enters the reconciliation confessional, patton stands and slowly moves toward the line. 

when she exits to see him there, she looks startled, only for a moment, before she offers him a rare smile.

“i’ll be praying for you,” she says.

“thank you,” patton says softly, and he slowly enters the confessional, settling in the seat, shifting logan just slightly.

patton takes one deep breath, two, before he admits, “it’s been a while since i’ve done this, i can’t remember—”

“forgive me father, for i have sinned,” archie prompts gently.

“right, right,” patton says, and swallows, swiping his free hand along his jeans to get rid of the sweat, then swapping his hold on logan so he can do the same for the other. “forgive me father, for i have sinned. it’s been... i think two and a half years since my last confession.”

“may god the father of all mercies help you make a good confession,” the priest says formally.

patton swallows, hard, eyes suddenly stinging. 

“um, i’ve. i’ve lied,” he says. “to my parents, teachers, and friends. about who i am, what was happening to me. if i was happy or sad. if i’d done the work that was asked of me. about  _ where _ i am, and what my plans were. are. i was—i  _ am— _ deceitful and secretive.”

no response. patton guesses he’s just supposed to keep going, then.

“i’ve been angry,” he says, and suddenly it’s difficult to look at logan, and the  _ guilt _ that comes from saying all of this out loud, and how is he supposed to feel  _ lighter? _ “about—about the way others treated me, and i know i’m supposed to turn the other cheek, but i—i didn’t, sometimes, and i spoke in words of anger or hurt, but it doesn’t take away the fact that it was mean.

“i’ve been sad,” patton says, “and ungrateful, and i didn’t properly cherish what i had, what i could have. i’ve been prideful, and greedy, and lustful, and wrathful, and envious. it feels like i’m making my way down the list of the deadly seven, so. there’s that.

“i’ve drank—alcohol, i mean—and i’ve drank too much, a few times, and i can’t remember all the stuff i’ve done then but it was probably pretty bad. i’m not sure if that’s a sin, but it feels like it should be, especially since i’m not of age.”

he chews his lip, and says, “i’ve snuck out of the house, and lied about where i was, and shut out my parents for  _ asking _ where i was. sometimes, i’d just... disappear. sneak out of the window, or wait until they were asleep, but i’d just sneak out of the house. i’m sure i’ve worried them terribly.”

“i’ve been...” he says, and his voice cracks. “i’ve been a terrible son. i’ve lied to my parents. i’ve been cruel to them. i ran away from  _ home _ without a word, and there’s only been one phone call to tell that i’m not  _ dead, _ which feels like i’m being unthoughtful at the  _ least. _ i’ve caused them so much worry, and pain, and i’m stuck in the middle of a choice that will either hurt me and my son, or hurt them even more, and i—i don’t know if it’s a sin, choosing to hurt them, but it feels like it should be. and i—i don’t know what to do?”

a beat, and then patton adds, “oh, i guess i had premarital sex, too. um, that’s a sin,” he says, with a sobbing kind of laugh, swiping his fingers under his eyes. “i don’t know if having a child outside of marriage is a sin, but it probably is, ‘cause of the whole sex thing, so add that one on there. i’ve done a lot of bad things over the past couple years, but i think i covered the big ones and i wouldn’t want to keep you for hours.”

“that’s quite a list,” archie says, and patton gulps.

“yeah.”

“it must have weighed on you quite heavily.”

“yeah,” patton says, and a sob escapes him, involuntarily. “it—yeah.”

“and you are truly seeking repentance?”

“yeah,” patton says. “i mean, i think i—yeah.”

“well,” archie says. “i’m afraid my advice mostly follows on what you’ve been doing, which is changing your ways—you’re making a living, you’re caring for your son.”

patton blinks, sniffling. “isn’t the advice usually to pray my rosary five times, or something?”

“well, if you feel it’ll help, you can certainly do that too, i’m sure mary wouldn’t be opposed,” archie says reasonably. “but  _ repentance _ —true repentance, in my mind—is a marked, vested interest in change. i certainly think that you’re doing that.”

“i’m changing,” patton says wearily. “trust me, i’m changing. to say the least.”

“quite,” archie says. “and... i suppose the rosaries and stopping by more church services couldn’t hurt, wouldn’t you say?”

patton manages a giggle—a snotty, gross one, but a giggle. “sure. i’ll say some rosaries.”

“all right,” archie says. “do you remember the act of contrition? i can walk you through it, if you like.”

so archie walks him through it, before he says, “god, the father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the holy spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. through the ministry of the church, may god give you pardon and peace. and i absolve you from your sins in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy spirit.”

“amen,” patton says.

“now,” archie says. “go forth, and go in peace.”

patton hesitates, before he says, “thank you” and quickly scuttles out of the confessional.

he’s re-strapping logan to his chest out front, listening keenly for the rain, by the time archie re-emerges from the church.

“oh!” patton says, “um—“

archie holds up a hand, and says, “if you prefer, i can stick very firmly to the whole ‘confessionals are private’ aspect of it.”

patton blows out a slow breath of relief. “yes, i’d appreciate it.”

he makes sure that logan’s secure in the carrier, and archie nods at him.

“well,” he says, “you’d certainly be welcome at our christmas mass, if you like.”

“i’ll think about it,” patton says, and admits, “i’m spending christmas with the danes’, so i’m not really sure of my schedule.”

“oh, they’re fine people,” archie says. “have a nice day, and a merry christmas.”

“you too, reverend,” patton says, and opens the black door, about to step out into the square, before—

“patton?”

“yes?” patton asks, turning around.

archie smiles thinly, before he says, “you do realize that who you’ve been offering to pray to—well, mary was an unwed teenage parent too, you know.”

patton’s lip quirks. he runs a hand over logan’s downy hair.

“huh,” he says thoughtfully. “you know, i guess she was.”

* * *

“hey. hope you didn’t get caught in the rain.”

“no, no,” patton says, and tilts his head. “well—i did, a bit, but i managed to steal away into the church so we didn’t get  _ too _ drenched.”

“oh, that’s—good,” virgil says, and similarly tilts his head. “i didn’t know you were—?”

“raised catholic,” patton says. “i like church better here, i think. it seems less—”

“homophobic slash transphobic, yeah,” virgil says dryly. “archie’s nice, he and david stop in here sometimes.”

“that’s good,” patton says. “how’s, um, the family being in town going?”

“good enough, i guess,” virgil says, scratching at his temple with the eraser-end of his pencil. “um—they’re over there.”

patton glances to where he’s gesturing to see freddie, meredith, mark, and three people he doesn’t know in a booth.

“esther and silas,” virgil elaborates. “they’re twins, second and third oldest. oh, and essie’s fiancée annabelle, too, she’s the one in pink. wyatt’s coming sometime tomorrow morning, he’s oldest.”

“the surgeon?”

“the surgeon,” virgil confirms. 

“should i go over and introduce myself?” patton asks uncertainly.

“mom and dad will take care of that for you,” virgil says. “can i put in your order?”

“pasta with marinara and parmesan cheese?” patton asks.

“side salad too?”

“sure, side salad too. and—“

“don’t say it,” he says, trying not to sigh.

“c’mon,  _ please,” _ patton begs. “i  _ need _ caffeine, c’mon, look at that face. look at that little baby face—“

“don’t bring the baby into this—“

“i  _ have _ to bring the baby into this, he’s why i need it to stay awake to make sure i can take care of him, virgil, and you want him taken care of, don’t you?” patton wheedles. virgil hesitates. wavers. sighs.

“you’re on a  _ limit, _ you hear me?”

“‘course,” patton says happily.

“i mean it,” he says sternly.

“uh-huh, sure,” patton says. 

“i’m  _ serious.” _

“of course you are,” patton says, and he must do a better job of looking less gloaty that time, because virgil sighs and notes it and heads back to the kitchen.

and, true to virgil’s word, meredith gets up and then gestures for everyone else to get up, and patton hastily waves at her, trying to get her  _ not to, _ because really he’s just one person (well, one person and one very tiny person, who is easily carried) and that’s  _ six _ people, so he quickly cuts across the diner before they can move to get up.

“hi,” patton says. 

“hi!” meredith says cheerfully. “this is our son, silas—“

silas, who looks the most like virgil of any of the siblings patton has seen so far, nods his head in a little jerk of acknowledgment. 

“—our daughter, esther—“

“essie,” she corrects, in a voice that’s bright and cheerful, and patton likes her immediately.

“—and esther’s fiancée annabelle,” meredith finishes.

annabelle, whose hair is pulled back into twin puffs, smiles at him, her white teeth a contrast against her perfectly smooth, dark skin.

“nice to meet you,” she says.

“nice to meet you too,” patton says. “um—i’m patton, this is my son, logan.” 

_ my son. _ still so new, so wonderful to say.

“would you like to have dinner with us?” meredith asks.

“oh!” patton says. “well, i mean—you don’t have to, i know it’s probably family time, and—”

“nonsense!” meredith says. “plenty of space, you’re joining us for christmas, the proximity to a baby—“

“please distract them,” essie says, jokingly, “dad keeps asking about wedding plans and i think he’s the only one who cares about napkin colors.”

“details are important,” mark says.

“not when the wedding’s still nearly two years away, they don’t,” annabelle quips.

“i—okay,” patton says, and so they end up pulling an extra chair at the table and mark basically immediately lays claim to holding logan first. 

virgil exits from the kitchen, looks confused, before he lays eyes on patton and strides over.

“your caffeine, which again you know is limited,” virgil scolds.

patton’s about to say something teasing, like  _ you’re not the boss of me _ or something, but a voice cuts in.

“surely he’s old enough to decide if he wants caffeine if he has a baby,” the brother—silas—says, and patton falters, fingers withdrawing from the mug. there’s just—something. in his tone. that reminds him of withdrawing into a corner at chilton. which isn’t—it’s stupid, it’s his  _ tone, _ it’s not like he’s said anything especially hurtful, but—

“ _ silas matthew,” _ mark says.

“what, he  _ does,” _ silas says. 

“yeah, he  _ does, _ but he’s my friend and i don’t want him overdosing on caffeine,  _ si,” _ virgil says, and silas scowls.

patton tries to come up with something to say, fails, and ends up shifting in his seat as virgil and his brother glare daggers at each other, before virgil double-checks that everyone’s drink is okay and going back to the kitchen.

_ he’s my friend. _

well—of course, patton had thought that virgil was his friend, he’d said when they met, hadn’t he,  _ i’ll be your person, _ but he just kind of figured that virgil was being  _ nice _ and helpful, but—

_ he’s my friend. _

no one other than christopher has voluntarily called patton their friend since he came out. (and even christopher was pretty leery about doing that in public.)

patton directs his smile into his mug of hot cocoa/coffee.

the conversation moves on swiftly. annabelle ends up prodding essie into telling a story from work, and she’s apparently a coding analyst (seriously, the array of  _ jobs _ in this family???) and has a horrific coworker. really, it’s mostly annabelle venting about how essie gets taken advantage of at work, and essie going “well, i wouldn’t say” and annabelle going “no, you  _ deserve _ better,” and the only time essie really indulges in the venting is when it comes to the way the coworker treats  _ other _ coworkers. 

honestly? patton can admire a partner sticking up for their partner. he’d like to have a partner like that one day.

oh, great. and now he’s thinking of christopher, and that distinct, bittersweet but way more bitter than sweet  _ ending, _ and his “what are you going to  _ do?” _ and patton doesn’t  _ know _ what he’s going to do and now he’s gotta redirect his train of thought  _ now _ .

“hey, pat, watch out, hot plate,” virgil says, and patton lets out a sigh of relief that he hopes isn’t too noticeable. “plus, salad.”

“thanks, v.”

“aaand parmesan,” he says, setting the little adorable bowl with the little adorable spoon that the diner uses to give out things like parmesan. 

“it looks great,” patton says truthfully, and, after virgil withdraws, patton folds his hands in his lap. 

it takes a couple minutes for meredith to glance sidelong at hm.

“are you not hungry, patton, sweetheart?” meredith asks, and oh no, now  _ everyone _ is looking at him, and—and  _ patton, sweetheart, _ the same way he says  _ logan, sweetheart, _ is that just a parent thing or?

“oh, no i am, but—“ patton says, ruffled, “but, i, um, it—the way i was raised, you wait until everyone has gotten their food before you start eating, or else it’s—or else you’re being rude. so.”

“what  _ planet _ are you from?” silas asks, and sure, said by anyone else, it could be a joke, but—but it’s that  _ tone _ again, and—

“silas,” essie hisses.

“ _ what, _ i know you’re thinking it too—“

“look, i—maybe a  _ little, _ before i met patton, but look at him, he seems perfectly nice, he’s been nothing but polite, he doesn’t seem anything like—”

“kids,” meredith says, clipped, and both fall silent. patton swallows.

“you can eat,” meredith says gently. “really, eat. even the best pasta never tastes very good cold. i promise we won’t think you’re rude.”

patton chews his lip for a few seconds, but everyone is  _ staring _ at him still, and just to make them stop he picks up his fork and starts mixing up the salad, so the dressing’s more easily dispersed, and taking a bite.

(if he eats his salad first, it’s almost like he’s the only person who ordered something during the salad and soup course, and that—that isn’t rude, refusing to eat that would mean that a waiter wouldn’t come to clear it away and everyone would have to wait longer for  _ their _ food, so eating that quickly was polite, so there!)

he manages to make eating his salad last until everyone else’s food gets there, and so, cringing only slightly, licks off his fork and uses the same one to eat his pasta. when he’d first asked for an extra fork, virgil had asked if his had fallen on the ground, and he said, “no, you just forgot to give me a salad fork,” and virgil had laughed for about ten seconds before saying “oh, you’re serious?”

he can practically feel his etiquette teacher entering death throes at the faintest  _ whiff _ of what he’s doing right now—well, if everything else patton had already done wouldn’t have killed her first.

he digs into his pasta a moment after meredith takes a bite out of her french dip.

everyone eats slowly; patton stays mostly quiet, listening as attentively as he can, as they reminisce about family times past, laughing at jokes when he understands them, passing condiments when necessary.

so he listens and learns things. it turns out annabelle’s a pediatric nurse, and silas installs and repairs electrical power lines. esther’s food-themed nickname is pumpkin and silas’ is peanut, and meredith and mark spend a solid minute attempting to debate one for annabelle, now that she’s just about part of the family. apparently, the danes’ do a big breakfast-for-dinner thing on christmas, which sounds delicious, frankly, and patton should not be sad about the slim-to-none chance of them having something apple-tart-adjacent being snatched away, it was absurd to even privately hope for it anyway. it turns out that that  _ tone _ wasn’t just a silas thing, wasn’t just how silas talked, it’s just how silas talks when he talks to  _ patton _ ; he seems quiet, like virgil, and patton guesses virgil’s dad, which is fine, of course, it’s more than fine, but—but what did patton  _ do? _ he didn’t say anything mean to him, he wasn’t rude, he was just—he’s just patton.

well. it’s not like silas is the first person to dislike patton just because of who he is. and it’s not like people usually tell him the reasons why, other than the transphobic ones.

other than that—which really patton should have seen coming, honestly, he’s him, sideshire had been too good to be true, it’s almost a sign that patton  _ hasn’t _ exited reality now that someone sees and acts like he's unlikeable again, a near-comforting return to earth—the dinner’s really nice. annabelle and esther are an adorable, lovely couple, and mark and meredith are welcoming, which he knew already, and even silas is kind of funny—a little like virgil, but virgil’s funnier than silas, and virgil’s much less acidic about it.

when patton moves to stretch his back, he can’t help but notice that the diner’s practically empty. it’s just them, and a few workers, and virgil at the register, punching some order or other in. the family starts drifting slowly out, and logan, of course, starts crying, so patton says his goodbyes and bears logan away to the bathroom to see if he needs anything. 

it turns out he’s hungry, and patton  _ hates _ the prickle of unease he feels in his stomach, every time. he’d read books, articles, and so many talked about the  _ joy of feeding your baby, _ and the  _ joyful bonding with your baby, _ and yes, there are parts of it patton likes—the way logan seems to reach for him, relaxing in his arms, the opportunity to sit down alone with logan and just  _ be _ with him, and to be sure that he’s well-fed and happy. that stuff, patton likes.

it’s all the rest of it—the technical, practical,  _ actual _ stuff that tends to come with feeding logan—that patton really strongly  _ heavily _ dislikes. which he feels  _ terrible _ about, and then feels terrible that he feels terrible, and it’s this terrible, terrible cycle. 

so patton tries his best to focus on the parts he likes, and not the aspects of dysphoria that nearly crush him, he tries, he really does, but it’s  _ hard. _

but he does it. and he breathes a sigh of relief when it’s all done, the way he always does, before he walks around and burps logan and makes sure they’re both all settled in and ready to present themselves to society, the routine ending parts that he uses to redirect his thoughts and  _ not _ think about top dysphoria.

patton’s about to turn the corner to walk back into the diner, where silas is the only one left at the table, knotting his scarf around his neck, except—except there’s a shadowy figure looming at the door, and then the person walks in.

he’s never even  _ seen _ this person before and frankly, there’s a lot to look at. sure, he doesn’t know  _ everyone _ at sideshire, but complete and total strangers that he’s never even seen before have been rarer and rarer.

this man, he would have remembered.

though he doesn’t look very old, he’s got a strong white streak in his hair that patton isn’t entirely sure is dye. he has a mustache, too, one of the ones that an old-timey villain strapping some poor damsel to the train tracks would have, and bags under his eyes that might even rival virgil’s. but what  _ really _ makes him stand out is the  _ outfit. _

he’s wearing a velvet-y looking tophat, black with a moldy green ribbon wound around the base of it, sitting jauntily slanted on his head, like it’s about to fall off. the ribbon matches his moldy green, velvety suit jacket that he’s wearing over a t-shirt that patton’s pretty sure says  _ art thou nasty? _ in that old-timey, blackletter font that’s always in storybooks. he’s also wearing overalls, or maybe just really high-waisted pants with matching suspenders, patton can’t tell, with an eyewatering hawaiian-shirt type pattern in too-neon oranges and greens. and heeled boots, with a curled toe, the kinds elves are always shown wearing in santa’s workshop.

if his fashion sense is always like  _ that, _ patton  _ really _ would have remembered seeing him.

silas, on the other hand, looks like he  _ definitely _ knows who this man is—he almost bares his teeth in a kind of snarl, which the man doesn’t notice.

“oh,  _ virgil!” _ the man trills in a nasally, somewhat unpleasant voice, and virgil peeks in from the kitchen.

“remus, hey, man,” virgil says. “we’re closing up, so food’s probably out of the question, but i could get you some coffee or someth—“

“can’t a man see his old buddy, old chum?” the man—remus, patton guesses—says, with a twirl of his hand.

“i mean, i guess,” virgil says. “why... now, though?”

remus grins, and turns in his seat to wiggle his fingers at silas with a near-flirtatious wink. silas looks like he’s fuming.

“yeah,” virgil comments. “okay, i see your point.”

remus turns back in his chair, and, in the process, locks eyes with patton, who’s just—he doesn’t know  _ why _ he isn’t walking out into the diner, but now they’re in the middle of a conversation and it would be  _ awkward— _ and winks again, before turning his attention fully back to virgil.

“ _ anyway,” _ remus says. “today, i bring forth the news that pregnancy is, quite possibly, one of the most  _ disgusting _ things to happen to the human body and i am  _ enamored _ with the concept.”

“you’re telling me this on the day before christmas eve?” virgil says.

“seriously, i mean,  _ think _ about it,” remus says. “your body thinks that thing is a parasite. you pee yourself a little when you even  _ sneeze. _ your nose can just start bleeding out of  _ nowhere, _ like you’re possessed or something! isn’t that  _ awesome?” _

“not for pregnant people, i’m sure,” virgil says.

“puking, rashes, random lines appearing all over your body, drooling and hemorrhoids and weird ankle swelling, and you can see the baby  _ moving under your belly _ like it’s about to be a chestburster from  _ alien, _ ” remus rattles off happily. “did you know that the whole start to giving birth is losing your  _ mucus plug? _ that even  _ sounds _ nasty!”

“man, rem, if only you could get pregnant to have all these joyous experiences,” virgil says, with the expression that makes it seem like he’s heard monologues like this before and that this is not, even in the slightest, a weird occurrence for this man.

“well, with my help, isadora is, and that’ll have to be good enough,” remus says.

patton’s never seen virgil’s jaw drop before. it’s kinda funny.

“i,” virgil says, and, clearly looking for something to say, mouth moving with words he’s trying to articulate, but he can only say “ _ what?” _

remus tosses something like he’s throwing confetti, and patton recognizes the familiar filmy texture of a sonogram as it flutters through the air, landing on the counter with a crinkling noise as it folds on impact.

“it’ll be three months on the seventh, so she’s finally cleared off her threats of practicing  _ very _ elaborate knife tricks on me so i can start telling people now,” remus says. “and i am telling everyone.  _ everything. _ about pregnancy. it is  _ so gross. _ it’s practically seven novels worth of gross. i can’t believe people just walk around pretending like it’s all pregnancy glow and gentle little kicks and slightly odd cravings, people can crave lead and babies can break  _ ribs, _ you know?”

virgil slowly picks up the prints, paging through them, and he shakes his head in disbelief.

“that is either going to be the weirdest baby on the face of the planet, or the most terrifyingly disciplined one, and i can’t figure out which idea freaks me out more,” he admits.

“yes, isadora thought the combination of our genes would be a gamble, but frankly it is a gamble i was very willing to make,” remus says. 

“you’re having a baby,” virgil repeats, and lets out a disbelieving laugh. “holy shit, man, you’re having a  _ kid. _ congratulations.”

remus grins. patton isn’t sure if that’s his “i’m very happy” smile or what, but he looks... just  _ slightly _ deranged. maybe that’s just his face, though, patton shouldn’t be passing judgment.

“so. that’s what i wanted to tell you.”

“yeah, good thing you did,” virgil says. “wow. a  _ kid _ .”

a pause, before virgil continues, “i feel like i should get you something—you want coffee, on the house? that’s about the most i can do right now, i don’t have champagne or anything.”

“with mayonnaise and orange soda, remember.”

patton nearly  _ pukes. _ god, he hopes he means all of that  _ separately. _

“how could i possibly forget, you absolute freak of nature,” virgil says, and he sounds  _ fond. _ “i’ll be right back.”

a brief pause as virgil vanishes into the kitchen.

“fuck you,” silas says.

“aw, honeyface, you say the nicest things,” remus says, “i know you’re straight, you know i’m gay, but even i have to draw a line at fucking the tedious big brothers of my friends. i mean, look at you. you’re just too vanilla for me, sweetiebear, you couldn’t handle all this without your mind melting out of your ears like jell-o with fruit inside.”

patton’s nose wrinkles at that mental picture. ick.

“you know what i  _ mean, _ you psychopath,” silas says. “stay away from my  _ brother.” _

“oh, but he wants me  _ here,  _ si,” remus says.

“don’t  _ call me that.” _

“—i mean, at least  _ i’m _ his  _ friend, _ you couldn’t get along with virgil if your life depended on it,” remus says, almost  _ amused. _ “doesn’t that just  _ frustrate _ you, si? don’t you want to put those big, strong hands of yours around his neck and  _ choke _ him, you get so angry?”

“shut  _ up,” _ silas snarls.

“you can tell me to shut up all you like, but i never will,” remus says, grinning, and he definitely looks more than  _ slightly _ deranged. “i know you’ve  _ thought _ about it, si, you  _ must _ have, or are you forgetting those times he’d show up to me with a bloody nose and i’d come up with a  _ plan?” _

“we were—we were fucking  _ kids,  _ that’s not—“

“oh, it’s not the  _ same,” _ remus simpers. “it’s not the  _ same, _ anymore, of course it’s not, you’re both big boys, i bet your brain has gone into those big boy scenarios. what do you think would work best?”

patton shrinks further and further behind the doorway, a mounting sense of horror growing with remus’ every word.

“knife, do you think? it’d be ironic if you killed him in his own diner, with his own  _ knife. _ or maybe you just nudge him the wrong way and he trips on down the stairs and just a tiny little broken bone in exactly the right place, that’s all it would take. or—“

“i’m not  _ killing _ my  _ brother,” _ silas says. “i want  _ you _ to stay the fuck away from him.”

“oh, of course not you’re not killing your brother, si,” remus says. “but i bet you want to kill  _ me. _ that’d keep me away for a very... long...  _ time _ , wouldn’t it?”

a silence looms, so great and so dense that even patton, who isn’t even  _ involved _ in the conversation, feels like he’s being crushed under the weight of it. patton holds his breath, and clings to logan, praying that he doesn’t wake up and start crying and draw attention to where patton is hidden away, where he can see virgil emerging from the kitchen.

virgil pauses, a gently steaming to-go cup in his hand, and surveys the room, where silas stands with shaking fists and remus lounges indolently at the counter. he surveys them for one moment. two.

“sorry, remus,” virgil says quietly, breaking the silence, but not the tension. “i think you better go. but it’s, um. bottom of the pot, near-burned stuff. just like you like it.”

“right, right, closing and then yelling at your brother, i get it,” remus says, swiping the to-go cup and taking an experimental sip and sighing exaggeratedly. “you’re good to me, v. it’s absolutely horrific. merry christmas, happy hanukkah, jocund kwanzaa, mirthful yule, blithe saturnalia, all that jazz. i’ll sacrifice a goat for you.”

“even after all these years, i can never tell if you’re joking,” virgil says.

“and,” remus says, with a doff of his cap before he puts it on, just as crooked as before, “you never shall. ta-ta, honeyface, bye, shmoopsie-pudding, call me up if you ever want death via hookup!”

he jumps in the air, clicks his heels, and twirls his way out the door.

_ well _ , patton thinks.  _ that’s certainly a first impression. _

and there’s that silence again, before—

“what the fuck is he doing here.”

“you heard him, silas, he’s gonna have a kid,” virgil says, sounding exhausted. “he wanted to tell me.”

“does he come around often?”

“yeah, shocker, he comes to one of three places to eat in town sometimes,” virgil says. “leave it.”

“am i supposed to leave it when you start breaking windows at doose’s grocery again?” silas retorts, and patton blinks.

virgil’s jaw works, for a few seconds, before he says, “remus is my friend. did we do dumb shit? yeah, we did. is it any of your business? no, so—”

“it’s my business, you’re my  _ brother,” _ silas snaps. “this was mom and dad’s diner, i’m not going to let you ruin it—“

“i’m not going to fucking  _ ruin it, _ i’ve been running it just fine on my own—“

“—if you keep talking with him, you  _ are _ going to ruin it, you ruin  _ everything,” _ silas bites out.

virgil removes the towel on his shoulder and throws it down on the counter furiously. “i didn’t realize we were seven again, si—”

“don’t call me—”

“—i’m running the diner  _ well, _ it’s going fine, and just because you’re bitter that i happen to  _ like _ my job and you  _ hate _ yours—”

“—you’re going to ruin it, like you ruined mom and dad when you were acting like you did with  _ him—” _

“i did not ruin mom and dad,” virgil says sharply. “do they seem ruined, to you?”

“—they were worried about you  _ all the fucking time, _ because they  _ knew _ when you’d get home you’d have some other  _ shit _ that you got into because you just surround yourself with bad people—“

“—you included, apparently,” virgil mutters, not quite under his breath.

“and that kid that’s coming to christmas now?”

virgil tenses; patton draws back further into the shadows, praying and praying and  _ praying _ that logan will stay asleep.

“what’s his fucking deal, then?” silas snaps. “how old is he,  _ fifteen, _ and he’s got a  _ baby? _ i mean, jesus christ, could he not stop to think for five seconds?”

patton swallows, hard, staring at his own feet.

“shut up, silas.”

“what, is he like, the teenage version of remus, now? god, poor kid. poor  _ remus’ _ kid, seriously, there should be a ban on people like that procreating—“

“i said,” virgil says, looking angrier than patton’s ever seen him, “shut the fuck  _ up, _ silas. he’s a good kid, he needs help, what kind of shit are you going through to push your issues with remus onto  _ him _ ?”

“i mean, seriously,” silas says. “where are his fucking  _ parents? _ did they kick him out because he was too weird, like remus’ should have, or is he just running from town to town, because his parents saw through all of that and he didn’t want to face—“

“get the  _ fuck _ out.”

silas stops. “what did you just say?”

“i said,” virgil says, “get the  _ fuck _ out, silas.”

“you can’t do that,” silas says, “you aren’t the boss of me.”

“no, maybe not,” virgil says. “but i’m the boss of here. it’s my name on the building and the lease, so it’s pretty within my rights to tell you to get the  _ fuck _ out.”

silas hesitates.

“do you need me to come out from behind here and throw you out?” virgil barks, and silas sneers, grabbing his coat and throwing it on, before walking out with a much angrier jangle of the bell, and the slam of the door.

virgil plants his hands flat on the counter and bows his head, taking a deep breath in, holding it, and letting it out. again. again.

“i know you’re there, patton,” he calls wearily, and patton flinches. 

“i’m not mad at you,” virgil continues. “you can come out, it’s okay.”

patton chews his lip, before, sheepishly, he shuffles out into the diner.

“how much of that did you hear?”

patton chews his lip more, shifts his hold on logan. “...snippets.”

“all of it, then,” virgil says, and patton sighs.

“just from, um. the man—remus?—coming in.”

“okay, yeah, all of it,” virgil says, and rubs a hand over his eyes. “ _ shit. _ i was hoping si wouldn’t do that this year, i thought distance would help. i’m sorry he dragged you into it.”

“i mean, it’s—“ patton says, and he frowns. “i mean, it isn’t  _ okay, _ but—“

“yeah, it’s  _ not _ okay,” virgil says. “christ, i’m so sorry.”

“it’s not your fault,” patton says.

“i mean, seriously, him assuming stuff about your situation was  _ so _ not okay, on so many levels, and i just—“

“it’s not your fault,” patton repeats, because he  _ really _ doesn’t want to think about it. 

“i just—“ virgil rubs a hand over his eyes. “ _ god. _ silas has always hated remus, and, i mean, the rest of my family didn’t  _ like _ him but at least they were  _ polite _ about it, and—”

“why?”

“why what?”

“why didn’t they like remus,” patton elaborates.

virgil hesitates, before he sighs, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “it’s kind of a long story.”

“i mean,” patton says, and tugs over the baby carrier before he settles logan inside, “we’re friends, right? friends can tell each other long stories.”

virgil hesitates, surveying his face, before he sighs. “yeah, all right. you should probably know in case it comes up tomorrow slash on christmas, anyway.”

patton hops up onto the barstool, eager to leave the part of silas and virgil’s argument about  _ him _ and his  _ situation _ behind.

“uh, well,” virgil says. “god, okay. um. so, you know i have anxiety.”

“right.”

“i wasn’t—“ he sighs, runs his hand through his hair. “i wasn’t in the best place, i guess, i was... i was lashing out a lot, or isolating myself, and my parents are saints, you know, but i mean—i don’t blame them for kind of losing it with me, sometimes? they had five kids, and the diner, and me saying rude sh—stuff, right, the baby, sorry—me saying rude stuff and refusing to make peace and just ignoring them every day couldn’t have been easy, you know?

“so, to make a long story a little shorter, i ended up kind of... identifying with outsiders, you know? and there’s no bigger outsider in sideshire than remus duke, so that’s who i hung out with. he’s older than me, by a few years, but he never—i mean, he never held that over my head, like silas did sometimes, and i’d tell him things, and he never really seemed to judge me for it. 

“he was... well, you saw him, you heard him. he’s a strange guy. and sure, sometimes the stuff remus would do would scare  _ me, _ but—but he was a good guy, deep down, you know? he helped me. the whole, like, being an outsider thing, and then kind of waking up to everything that i could do that would be way worse than, say, running a diner, it helped, in a really weird way, but—but i did some stupid stuff.”

“you were like me,” patton realizes quietly.

“not exactly,” virgil hedges. “i walked the line of juvenile detention a lot more than you, tagging and graffiti and egging houses and that kind of thing, but—but yeah. i can sympathize with doing stuff that might not be the best for you when you’re a hurting teenager.” 

there’s a pause, before virgil clears his throat and says, “anyway. it's not like silas and remus ever got  _ along, _ but it got way worse after i became friends with him, i think silas got it into his head that remus was influencing me, or peer-pressuring me, or that i’m just a bad person instead of someone who made some mistakes, and he’s just held a grudge about it since. so.”

patton has the feeling he’s getting the shortest possible version of the story, with almost all the details cut out, but. he thinks he gets it. 

“and now your family doesn’t like him because... because you did that stuff?”

“yeah, essentially,” virgil says. “or, well. they think i’ve grown up, and they think remus hasn’t.”

well—patton doesn’t think they’re  _ wrong. _ goading silas while virgil’s outside of earshot didn’t seem like the most  _ mature _ thing to do, but.

“i think i get it,” patton says. “i mean—you aren’t doing stupid stuff now, so. it’s not a crime to be friendly with someone.”

“yeah,  _ exactly,” _ virgil says. “ _ exactly. _ remus is a good enough guy when you get to know him, when his kid’s born i could introduce you and logan, since i guess they’d be in the same grade, and i just— _ god _ , silas is such a word i can’t say in front of the baby sometimes, you know?”

patton nods, and it’s like it sets loose the floodgates. virgil rants about silas (”mom and dad say it’s because we’re both too alike, but  _ god _ , the things he says sometimes i’d never even  _ dream _ of saying to a person’s face, you know?”) and the various arguments they’ve had over the years, and how virgil gets along with his siblings, most of the time, but there’s just  _ something _ about silas that’s always gotten under his skin, and vice versa, and silas had always been a bit more sporty than he had and so when virgil hit his growth spurt late it almost seemed like silas was disappointed they couldn’t get away with “childish rough-housing” anymore, and silas didn’t  _ like _ his job, everyone in the family knew that, but seriously if it was getting this bad to the point where he’s being  _ this _ mean (well, virgil said a different word, and then said, “sorry, right, the baby, sorry!”) then it may well have been worth it just to quit, even if there wasn’t a paycheck waiting for him, and virgil loves him because he’s his brother but if they weren’t brothers, virgil really doesn’t know how he’d feel about him, he really doesn’t, and—

“god, patton, i’m sorry,” virgil says. “i’m so sorry.”

patton blinks. “sorry for what?”

“well, for dumping all of this on you, and it’s so late, and you’re—y’know, you’re having a rough time as is, i shouldn’t be adding to that by—“

“virgil, stop,” patton says quietly. “i mean—i’m kind of glad that you’re ranting like this.”

virgil stops. “you are?”

“yeah,” patton says. “i mean, i—i dunno, this might be weird, but everyone’s been treating me so  _ nice. _ which isn’t bad, of course it isn’t, but hearing about someone else’s problems and being talked to about them, it—it makes me feel more like a person and less like a charity case, you know?”

virgil considers this.

“i don’t know, maybe it’s weird, and it’s just a me thing,” patton says quickly, looking off to the side, away from that contemplative gaze.

“no, no, i think i get it,” virgil says. “it’s... taking your mind off things. letting you focus on something else.”

patton lets out a breath of relief. “yeah. yeah,  _ exactly.” _

“and there’s a lot to keep your mind off of,” virgil says, and patton looks down, guilty, chewing his lip.

“what?” virgil says.

“i just—” patton chews his lip. “no, it’s not your problem. i should be able to handle it just fine.”

“i,” virgil begins, looking concerned, before he says, “you’re sure?”

“yeah, i’m—i’m sure,” patton says. he’s trying to figure out if he wants to be  _ emancipated _ or not. that kind of shows that he should be independent, right? he shouldn’t go around putting all of his problems on other people. they’re  _ his _ problems.

“okay,” virgil says. “just—this whole ranting to each other thing is a two-way street, you know.”

“one you haven’t crossed until tonight,” patton says, and leans to pick up logan. “no, it’ll be okay. i should probably get back to the inn anyways, it’s late.”

“do you want me to walk you back?”

“no, no, that’s okay,” patton says. “um. thanks for dinner and stuff tonight, and—and for the whole family christmas thing tomorrow. i’m looking forward to it.”

“well,” virgil says. “good. i’m glad. and i’ll try to have a word with silas about not being a jerk to you.”

“i appreciate it,” patton says, walking slowly back to the door. “um. night, v.”

“night, pat. night, logan,” he adds, and patton opens the door and lets it shut behind him.

_ where are his fucking parents? did they kick him out because he was too weird, like remus’ should have, or is he just running from town to town, because his parents saw through all of that and he didn’t want to face— _

_ god, patton, i’m sorry, i’m so sorry, for dumping all of this on you, and it’s so late, and you’re—y’know, you’re having a rough time as is, i shouldn’t be adding to that by— _

_ and there’s a lot to keep your mind off of. _

there is. there is a lot to keep his mind off of. he has a colicky infant. even with a paycheck, patton’s funds are rapidly depleting and he should have started paying attention to his finances sooner. he broke up with his boyfriend (?) his childhood best friend, the closest thing he thinks he’s ever had to love (he loved christopher, he  _ loves _ him, and now—) he ran away. his emancipation. his parents’ reaction to both of those things.  _ seeing _ his parents again.  _ will _ he see his parents again? what’s he going to do about school? what’s he going to be about  _ logan’s _ school? his body is an absolute nightmare of dysphoria—he can’t bind down his chest for at least four more months, if not longer, and he knows that feeding logan is supposed to be a time for bonding but patton can hardly bring himself to  _ look _ most of the time, tries to do it in the dark when he can, and his bodyweight is all out of whack and his appetite comes and goes and he’s  _ only just stopped bleeding  _ and thank goodness it’s done now but  _ god, _ no one had warned him that he’d be  _ bleeding _ for so long after giving birth. he’s achy and  _ exhausted _ and sometimes when logan starts crying and keeps crying in the middle of the night patton will cry right with him, sobbing even as he tries to bounce logan into calming down, and—

—and there’s a lot to keep his mind off of. but virgil—god, not for one second, not for one  _ second _ was virgil one of the things he was worried about hurting him. he never would be. the rest of his life, though...

he wonders, bleakly, how many minutes of sleep he’ll get tonight between the colicky baby and the stomach-churning guilt.


	3. chapter three

"patton,” meredith says warmly, “and logan, too! come in, come in, let’s get you both out of the cold.”

“hi,” patton says, and shuffles into the diner. “um—sorry i’m late, but, you know. babies.”

“oh, they’ll need something right at the moment that’s most inconvenient, won’t they?” meredith says. “and no worries, the time’s really more a suggestion anyway—most of the rest of the kids aren’t here, but let me introduce you to my son, wyatt—”

mark, who’s sitting at the counter, looks like the man at the counter copy-pasted, except mark’s aged about twenty more years and is a bit softer around the belly. wyatt sets aside his fork and turns to more fully face him—the only difference, other than age, are the perfectly circular glasses that wyatt’s wearing, making his brown eyes overly large, like he’s looking through two magnifying glasses.

“hi,” patton says. “i’m patton, this is logan.”

“hello, patton,” he says, and, equally seriously, “hello, logan. may i hold him?”

“oh! sure,” patton says and passes him over. 

wyatt holds logan a little far away from his body, surveying him. logan surveys him back. wyatt tilts his head for a moment.

“he’ll suffice,” wyatt says decisively, hands logan back, and turns back to his breakfast.

“um,” patton says, juggling logan in his arms so that he’s comfortable. “thanks, i think?”

“you’re quite welcome,” wyatt says. he continues to eat his eggs.

“hey, patton,” virgil says. “merry christmas eve.”

“merry christmas eve,” patton says.

“can i get you anything?”

patton chews at his lip, and says, “hot cocoa/coffee?”

“you know the whole spiel, i’ll spare you,” virgil says.

“it’s a christmas miracle,” patton says.

“yeah, yeah,” virgil mutters, and pours him a mug.

“thanks,” patton says, accepting it. “is there a plan for the day?”

“cook a lot,” virgil says vaguely, “which we’ll eat throughout the day. um, christmas cookies, at some point.”

“oh, sugar, before i forget, you should bring in the movies from the car, so we can start the marathon,” meredith says. 

“after breakfast?” wyatt says.

meredith pauses, sighs, and says, “all right, after breakfast.”

mark says, “patton, would you like some pancakes? i’m thinking of making some and only meredith’s taken me up on it.”

“oh, i’ll eat anything,” patton says quickly. “pancakes sound great, thank you.”

“but, yeah,” virgil says and shrugs. “christmases are pretty relaxed, around here. we tend to work for half the day in the diner, but since the vast majority of my family are no longer child laborers—”

“hey,” meredith says, jokingly indignant.

“—it’s probably mostly going to be me, down here, but who knows,” virgil says. “maybe nostalgia will work in my favor, and i’ll get some unpaid laborers, and i will be shot when the revolution comes, rightfully destroyed under the hammer and sickle. anyway, we close after lunch so we can do a big dinner, we open one present of our choosing before bed. not much else goes on, for christmas eve.”

patton thinks of his past christmas eves, crammed with making appearances at holiday parties and going to church and sitting through teas and brunches and cocktail parties with business partners of his father’s, women in the same societies as his mother. 

you know what? he can take a lazy day and good food and christmas movies. that isn’t strenuous at all. he shouldn’t miss the rush of small talk that felt more like an invasive interview than anything—he’d  _ hated _ it then, why is he missing it now?

“it’s the first christmas eve without a house here, though,” meredith says, cutting in, “so i’m afraid you’ll have to suffer through our various experiments on how to make all of us fit into virgil’s apartment with some degree of comfort.”

“oh, hey, speaking of comfort,” virgil says, and digs out the baby carrier, which meredith picks up before patton can even try to adjust logan to reach for it himself. 

“thanks,” patton says, and carefully settles logan into the carrier. logan babbles his thanks, and patton digs around for the new pacifier he’s just gotten him, one of logan’s admittedly few christmas gifts—logan’s old one met a bit of a dismal end in the inn’s garbage disposal—and pops it into logan’s mouth. 

for the first time since coming to sideshire, patton’s facing two days off work, and responsibilities, other than logan. it’s probably a good thing that he’s got built-in plans, because if he didn’t, he’d be sleeping for two straight days, only waking up for logan’s crying and maybe food, like, a hastily made peanut-butter-and-jelly or just whatever bag of junk food’s cheapest and closest. 

and now, he’s got a freshly-made stack of pancakes (from scratch, no less) and people to fawn over his baby and, apparently, christmas movies to watch. 

oh, huh. he hadn’t even thought about it just now—when was the last time he’d watched  _ tv?  _ when was the last time he’d lounged on the couch, and snacked on food, and watched tv? certainly not since logan was born. probably not even before that—patton had spent a lot of time in his room, during his pregnancy. it felt like whenever he ventured out to sit in the living room all he got were disappointed looks and irritated snaps.

months, patton decides. it had been months. maybe even a year.

so, with that strange feeling sitting heavy on his chest, he digs into his pancakes with maybe a bit more aggressive fervor than he usually does.

“thank you, mr. danes, this is delicious,” patton says, by rote, after he eats one bite. he’s still going to be polite, even if he feels funny about thinking about what he’s lost—even little things, like tv. 

losing bigger things, like his parents, potentially for forever, make him feel things a lot worse than  _ funny. _

but he’s not going to think about that today or tomorrow, he tells himself firmly. after christmas, he’ll have six days between christmas and the new year. he’ll think about it and make a decision then, even if the thought roils his stomach and makes the pancakes a little more difficult to swallow down than usual.

“mark, please,” mark says, looking pleased with himself.

“good luck with that,” virgil says dryly. “i think the only reason i’m not  _ mr. danes _ is because you didn’t find out my last name until a couple weeks after we met.”

“it’s  _ polite.” _

“it’s not a sin to call people by their first names,” virgil counters.

“it’s a sign of respect to call people by their title,” patton counters. “you know, for my elders.”

“ _ elders!” _ virgil squawks indignantly. “i’m not an elder, i’m twenty-three!”

“and i’m sixteen! therefore, you’re an elder.”

virgil mutters something along the lines of  _ when you’re twenty-three i’m reminding you of this conversation, _ which is an absolutely mind-boggling concept. twenty-three. that had never sounded like a year patton would make it to. even  _ seventeen _ seems practically insurmountable.

patton manages to say something along the lines of “yeah and when i’m twenty-three, you’ll still be my elder,” even while he’s thinking about it. twenty-three. logan would be… six, seven _. _ walking, talking, reading, writing. in school. he’d know what foods he’d like and hate and have favorite subjects and least favorite subjects and if he preferred math to english or science to history and he’d have friends and maybe even a  _ crush. _

logan growing up— _ that’s _ what’s insurmountable. not this tiny little baby who, currently, seems to be estimating how far he can throw his pacifier and if papa will go and get it for him, pulling it up out of  _ nowhere. _ patton would know if logan’s eyes, now that shade of brown that matches his, will have stuck around, if logan will favor him or christopher or both or maybe even neither. if he’ll be tall or short, athletic or academic. if he’ll grow up with or without grandparents.

  1. logan can stay a baby for quite a while longer.



patton is saved from this particular line of thinking when freddie arrives and immediately pounces onto wyatt’s back with a holler of delight, which wyatt tolerates with what patton’s starting to think is his typical placidity. 

freddie then proceeds to pepper him with questions, hiking up the leg of her jeans to proudly display a massive bruise on her knee that her parents exclaim over. 

“can you check it?” she asks, but wyatt’s already patiently taking her knee between both hands, adjusting his glasses.

“does it hurt very badly when i do this?” wyatt says, pressing his fingers to it lightly.

“no.”

“how about now?”

“other than it just being more pressure? no.”

wyatt looks at her over his glasses, unamused. “you’re just doing this to see if, in my medical opinion, this might possibly be the biggest bruise i’ve ever seen, aren’t you.”

freddie grins at him beatifically.

“a choreographer wanted to do a number where i never touch the ground and they just hurl me in the air the whole time, from person to person,” freddie says. “i’ve got  _ tons.” _

wyatt sighs. “i anticipate more demonstrations forthwith.”

“no showing off battle wounds in my diner!” virgil shouts from the kitchen.

freddie pouts.

“my apartment,” virgil says, emerging, “is  _ right there. _ do your weird world-record-seeking stuff away from the food.”

“world record?” patton asks.

“it’s freddie’s not-so-secret ambition to do a world record, of some kind,” virgil says. “i’m not even sure if she cares what it is.”

“preferably something with acrobatics, but i’m flexible—“

“no physical puns!”

“you never let me have  _ fun!”  _ freddie sulks, but she is lowering her arms from where she’d been about to interlock them behind her back, to do something incredibly weird with her body because her bones seem like they’re made of rubber, patton’s guessing.

“do you need ice?” mark asks freddie, frowning at her in concern and passing a hand over her hair. “you’ve been icing and bandaging everything properly, right?”

“...yep,” freddie says.

“winifred,” wyatt says, handily polishing off his eggs, “i will offer you an escape from parental smothering by means of asking if you would like to help me carry in christmas movies from my car.”

“oh, thank god,” freddie says.

“my name is wyatt,” he says. patton isn’t fully sure if he’s kidding.

“i know, big guy,” freddie says fondly, and meredith rolls her eyes even as her children both make their getaways.

“what on earth are we going to do with that girl,” she comments to mark.

“she’s run away to the circus, dear,” mark says, “i don’t think there’s much else for us to do.”

a pause.

“i’m going to send her back with a care package of ice packs and ace bandages, though,” mark decides. “just to be safe. it never hurts to have them.”

meredith smiles and rubs his arm. “that’s a good plan.”

parenting, patton thinks.  _ just to be safe _ seems like a pretty integral part of parenting, planning too. it’s good advice, even if they didn’t  _ mean _ for it to be advice. the danes’ seem like a good example to follow.

logan bops at his pacifier hard enough that it falls out of his mouth and onto the counter, with a delighted babble at the demonstration of gravity.

he guesses he’s got a while to go before he has to worry about all that, though.

patton has never seen the diner so crowded.

he and annabelle have managed to lay claim to one of the tiny tables in the corner—well, “lay claim,” they were there before any of these people—and patton watches. 

they  _ were _ going to watch a movie, but after all the siblings got there meredith ended up helping out a waitress who looked ready to tip over under the weight of all the plates she’d been carrying, and then one thing led to another, and now patton and annabelle were watching the danes family at work, like none of them had ever left.

meredith and freddie are a rapid-fire chatty team at the counter, with frequent gales of laughter from their customers.

essie and wyatt flit around the diner, taking orders and making well-timed quips (essie) or observations (wyatt.) wyatt doesn’t even need a pen—he just  _ remembers _ everyone’s orders, down to the condiments.

silas, who is apparently much stronger than he looks, is toting the weight of two fully-loaded trays at any given time for the elder two siblings.

virgil and mark occasionally emerge from the kitchen, but patton can hear sizzling and knives chopping and the smell speaks for itself—spices and sugar and so much  _ good _ food that patton’s considering—

“brunch?” annabelle asks.

“oh, thank god,” patton says, “it smells so good in here, i was getting hungry again.”

“do you wanna each get something and split it?” annabelle says. “just so we have some options.”

“that sounds great,” patton says. “um, is there any food you  _ don’t _ want to get? like, allergies, personal preferences, that kind of thing? that seems like the easiest place to start.”

he and annabelle slowly whittle down the menu—it turns out annabelle’s very open to just about every food option—and annabelle waves enthusiastically to essie, who perks up and prances over to their table.

“hey,” she says brightly.

“hey,” annabelle says, smiling, and accepts the kiss that essie presses to her cheek. 

“you guys doing okay?” essie asks, sticking her pen into the knot of brown hair piled on top of her head. “i kind of got sucked back in, sorry.”

“i’ve got patton to keep me company, we’re okay,” annabelle says, smiling.

“oh, right, good,” essie says. “patton, this exact thing happened last year and i felt so bad, annabelle was just sitting alone in a corner for half the day, but—“

“hey, it’s cool,” annabelle says. “i had a book to read.”

essie frowns. “still—”

“you’re spending time with your family,” annabelle says. “go fetch us some french toast and waffles and caffeine, and i’ll consider forgiving you.”

she’s clearly joking, and essie smiles, relieved.

“love you,” essie says.

“i love you too, babe,” annabelle says, and essie’s smile widens before she practically floats back to the counter to turn in their order.

“how long have you two been together?” patton asks annabelle.

“oh, years,” annabelle says. “seven or eight, give or take.”

“wow,” patton says softly.

“yeah,” annabelle says, and a goofy kind of grin spreads across her face. “she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, i can handle a morning watching her have fun with her family, y’know? it makes her happy. plus, i’d be useless doing anything with... that.”

“me, too,” patton says.

“and, i mean, now you’re here,” annabelle says. “so i’ve got someone to chat with, which is good, because i forgot to pack a book this year.”

patton laughs, mostly to be polite, and says, “i guess that is good, yeah. um, so, how did you and essie meet?”

“college,” annabelle says. “we were roommates, and then, well. one thing led to another. best random assignment i could have gotten.”

“that’s really awesome,” patton says sincerely, and that sets annabelle off on a “I Love My Fiancée” tangent which patton is really happy to listen to. essie is, according to annabelle, the sweetest, most thoughtful, caring, wonderful person that she’s ever met, and she’s so excited to spend the rest of her life with her, and she can only hope that she will stack up so that she’ll be able to deserve her, and when essie is approaching to drop off their food, she’s blushing, so she must have overheard, and annabelle grins.

“you really don’t need to be so shy,” annabelle quips, and essie blushes a little more.

“well, you don’t have to be so loudly happy about it,” essie mumbles.

“of course i’m going to be happy about you, why wouldn’t i be happy about you?” annabelle counters. “you’re going to be my  _ wife.” _

essie beams at the very idea, and, with another kiss on the cheek, she floats back toward the counter, where freddie clearly begins teasing her, complete with heart-clutching and dramatic fake swooning.

“so,” annabelle says, after patton takes a forkful of french toast, “what’s your story? virgil hasn’t really told any of us much.”

patton slows his chewing as much as he can, trying to formulate an answer.  _ well, see, i got pregnant and ran away from home and now i’m torn between breaking my parents’ hearts or mine, depending on the choice i make? _

“well,” patton begins cautiously. “i’m, um, it’s—well, i, um. it’s.”

“complicated?” annabelle asks. “i mean, it’s—y’know. me too.”

patton blinks. 

“i’m from texas,” annabelle elaborates. “small-town texas. um. you can probably fill in the stereotypes from there. i fully cut off contact with my parents about four years ago.”

“oh,” patton says, and it’s like the word is punched out of him. “i—i’m really sorry.”

annabelle shrugs. “it is what it is,” she says. “anyway. the danes’ have been great. i’ve been coming to holidays with them since i graduated college and, you know. came out to my parents.”

patton chews his lip, and admits, “mine’s not quite the same situation, but—but close.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

he isn’t sure if he should say more—he has a vague feeling he should probably elaborate, but the idea of having a breakdown in the diner  _ again _ is. not his idea of a fun christmas eve morning.

“that’s rough, dude,” annabelle says. “um, esther’s the emotionally capable one, so, sorry, but. you want some waffles?”

patton snorts.

“yeah,” he says. “okay, sure. i’ll have some waffles.”

* * *

"okay, so, you wanna pick, lo?” patton says to logan, holding up the cookie cutters in front of logan, but far enough away that he won’t grab at it. “stars or angels.”

logan considers his options. then, making a cooing noise, he very clearly reaches for the shiny silver star cookie-cutter.

“good choice!” patton cheers, and leans in to kiss logan on the forehead. “stars it is. it’s a shame you don’t have teeth to eat these with.”

he puts his finger in logan’s hand, so he has something to grab at, and sets the cookie cutter out of sight. logan then proceeds to drag patton’s finger toward his mouth, just to chew at it. as patton expected.

“oh, that’s a good idea,” meredith says, and then holds up a christmas tree and a reindeer cookie cutter in logan’s line of sight. with his free hand that isn’t currently holding patton’s finger to his mouth, he reaches for the tree.

and so begins a parade of people consulting the baby on cookie shape choices. granted, sometimes logan doesn’t always make a choice—at silas, logan makes a disdainful noise and starts chewing on patton’s finger with even more fervor, seeming to glower at him—but he does reach for quite a few choices, with no pattern that patton can decipher. 

at one point, he gets a bit frustrated that he can’t hold any of the things that are being held in front of him, so virgil digs up two blunt, plastic cookie cutters, which means patton is free to wash his hands as logan starts mouthing at a snowflake-shaped cookie cutter, the mitten-shaped one cast aside. 

now that the lunch rush is done, the diner’s officially closed for christmas eve and christmas, which means that it’s time for the danes’ to start making christmas cookies. they’re like a well-oiled machine—there’s  _ tons _ of home-made sugar cookie and gingerbread dough, with essie and freddie making frosting together, freddie occasionally flicking dyed frosting toward her siblings, and essie would only sometimes catch her wrist with a kind of scolding laugh.

virgil, with a streak of purple across his cheek and a clump in his hair, helps patton and annabelle figure out how to best utilize the dough they have, so that they’ll have maximum cookie and minimum scraps. 

all the while, christmas music plays, filling up any noise that isn’t taken over by conversations amongst the danes’. and there are  _ conversations. _ listen, patton’s used to a lot of conversations echoing around a room, but he’s used to people in his  _ parents’ _ world with their quiet, politely pitched voices, so that their gossip and snide commentary wouldn’t carry to their targets.

the danes’ have no such concerns.

their loud, booming laughs and indignant squawks and clamorous chatter and roaring responses and impassioned, ranting interruptions could maybe be heard from  _ outside, _ let alone within the same room. it’s cacophonous, rowdy chaos.

any unwritten, strict rules of conversation that patton’s been preached to have been cheerfully thrown out the window. he can jump from conversation to conversation as he pleases, and no one seems to mind that he  _ does _ because everyone’s doing the same thing. he can join mark and meredith’s debate over what constitutes a good christmas cookie, then chime in on his opinion on a book that he, annabelle, and wyatt have all read, and back up virgil when freddie pokes fun at him.

even virgil and silas, whose argument patton remembers  _ vividly, _ are bumping elbows, and silas tousles virgil’s hair as he traps him under his arm, but it’s less like a dangerous, harmful thing and more like sibling squabbling, especially considering freddie joins right in by leaping on silas and yelling “YOUNGEST SIBLINGS ALLIANCE!” and essie trying to yank her off while proclaiming about the twinly treaty, while wyatt watches calmly from the sidelines and mark and meredith break them up with the weary, well-meaning tones of parents who have done this a million times before.

patton’s never seen anything so different; he’s an only child, from such a different world, and chris, his closest friend, is an only child, too. siblings are so  _ strange.  _ there are no manners. there aren’t any lingering hurt feelings. it’s almost like family time out of a movie, except it’s so much more chaotic and messy.

patton  _ loves _ it.

as the cookies bake, the entire family works together to start decorating the tree, placed proudly in the center of the diner. none of the matchy-matchy, expensive, fancy ornaments that patton was never allowed to touch. cardboard boxes full of past childhood ornaments made during school, which erupt into various stories and reminiscing about the sideshire schoolteachers, cheesy souvenir ornaments from the various travels of every danes, including some new ones that mean lots of questions about what they’d been doing there, a popcorn-and-cranberry garland that essie, annabelle, and silas are still making even as wyatt drapes it round and round the tree. 

somehow, the whole gaudy thing works; glinting with glittery ornaments and two strands of lights, it’s visible from the outside, when patton obligingly steps out to check and see. he helps everyone stack their presents under the tree—it turns out, the danes' have some color-coding going for their gifts. gold wrapping paper means they're presents for mrs. danes, silver for mr. danes, green for wyatt, red for essie, pink for annabelle, black for silas, yellow for freddie, purple for virgil. so patton ends up kind of organizing the presents so it's like a color wheel around the tree; everyone's presents, all together so they can just go to their color instead of hunt every present ringing the tree.

even as disorganized as they seem, it’s clear that the danes’ are a well-oiled machine, because by the time everyone decrees the tree satisfactory the cookies are cooled enough to decorate.

“i’ve never actually decorated cookies like this before,” patton says, as virgil passes him a piping bag full of icing—they’re splitting up all the icing into tiny bowls and piping bags, so everyone’s got their own little icing station. everyone's already wearing an old  _ meredith's _ branded apron, from before virgil took over the diner.

“what, with a piping bag?” virgil asks. "it's pretty easy, once you get the hang of it, you can practice on some of that wax paper if you want—"

"no, i mean," patton says, "we usually order christmas cookies to send to people. like, caterers or bakeries usually take care of it. i've never  _ actually _ gotten to make my  _ own _ christmas cookies."

there is dead silence around the prepping station in the diner's kitchen. then:

" _ what," _ freddie breathes out, disbelievingly. "never? never  _ ever?!" _

"never ever," patton agrees. "i mean, maybe when i was really tiny, but—"

"you've never even made a  _ ginger you?" _ essie says, incredulous. "or—a gingerbread house? not even one of the ones that come in kits?"

patton briefly imagines his mom's reaction if he brought in some cheap, pre-made gingerbread house to assemble. to make a mess, in  _ her _ kitchen? even if she never  _ actually _ used the kitchen, it’s still  _ hers, _ and—

patton shakes his head, and there's an explosion of questions— _ have you never decorated a cookie  _ **_EVER,_ ** _ do you even eat gingerbread, do you bake stuff usually—? _

"well, i've baked stuff before, but," patton says, and swats at virgil when he snorts.

"you burned 'em, didn't you?"

patton huffs, but doesn't deny it. because, well. he  _ did. _ it's really probably for the best that the professionals were in charge of these christmas cookies, because he  _ definitely _ would have messed them up somehow.

"what do you  _ eat _ on christmas?" silas demands.

"um," patton says, scratching at his temple, "whatever catering that people have got, on christmas eve, and my parents usually have a party on christmas that has these  _ amazing _ apple tarts, i swear they're the best part of christmas—"

"well, at least there's  _ some _ kind of traditional dessert," meredith says.

"not all families are so food-centric, dear," mark says.

"well, i know, but." meredith says. " _ still. _ no christmas cookies,  _ ever?" _

"well, that does it, then," freddie says decisively. "you get first pick."

there's a rush of agreement from everyone—well, silas is silent, but he doesn't disagree—and patton tilts his head quizzically.

"get a dozen of these, whichever ones you want," virgil says, gesturing to the huge amount of cookies on the cooling rack. 

"surely you're going to make a gingerbread self," wyatt says, and there's a burst of recommendations of what cookies he should get, pointing to the best specimens of each cookie shape, and patton just kind of ends up going for a little bit of everything—stars, trees, a reindeer, an angel, an ornament, a snowman, a bell, and yes, a gingerbread man—and stares, bemused, at the tools virgil sets in front of him.

"um," patton says, and virgil laughs—not in a mean way, but still enough to make patton flush a little. 

"okay," he says. "so, when you hold a piping bag, there are a couple grips you can go with, and it mostly depends on the kind of decoration you're doing... "

and so begins patton's lessons in frosting christmas cookies. 

mark shows him how to best ensure that there aren't any air bubbles in the icing.

meredith tells him about how to mix together icing on wax paper to get the exact color he wants, like he's a painter or something.

wyatt, with his steady surgeon's hands, shows him how to ice beautiful, delicate-looking flowers.

essie shows him how to best press down sprinkles without getting stray bits stuck where he doesn't want them.

annabelle, laughingly, demonstrates the best way to push his hair out of his eyes without accidentally smearing pastel blue frosting across his forehead.

freddie demonstrates how to throw cookies like ninja-style throwing stars, but that's less a decoration lesson and more of a way to directly target someone who teases her about her messy cookies.

even silas shows him how to use a toothpick to get even, straight lines.

and virgil helps him fix his mistakes, and helps him move things when his hands are too sticky to move anything without getting it messy too, and even helps break down a cookie so he can make a little gingerbread baby, for logan.

and even if patton's icing jobs look messy in comparison to mark's practiced work, or wyatt's even, steady lines, they fit right in with freddie's colorful, smudged ones, and annabelle's, which she mostly requests essie's help with.

"it's really more about the fun of the thing," meredith says, when she sees him looking between wyatt's and his own. "did you have fun?"

patton grins and nods, and she gives him a thumbs up.

"well then," she says decisively. "i mean, they're all going to have the same thing happen to them. and even if they're messy, i promise you they'll taste just as good. go on."

so patton picks up a star, the first one he'd iced—with shaky little blue swirls and silver glitter—and crunches into it.

it's just crisp enough on the outside and soft on the inside, with sugary, yummy icing, and, well. even if patton's icing might be a bit ugly, he can't deny that meredith's right.

so he picks up a blank star, and he starts icing again.

* * *

“logan,” patton says, around a mouthful of gingersnap cookie, “it  _ seriously _ is a shame that you don’t have teeth to eat these.”

logan, who’s fixated on the television—virgil guesses all the colors and sounds must be super interesting, to a baby—doesn’t seem to care very much.

"these are the best christmas cookies i’ve ever had,  _ ever,” _ patton says sincerely. “thank you.”

“you’ve said that a million times,” meredith says, amused. “you’re welcome.”

she passes him another as she speaks. honestly, virgil would kind of start interceding, but his mom has the same “must feed” gene that he does, except she doesn’t pay as much attention to things like nutritional value. he doesn’t blame her; patton’s wearing an old sweater that’s been handed down to him, and it's big enough that it makes him look pretty scrawny.

some danes’ (silas, mark, and wyatt) are in the kitchen, making an endless parade of appetizers and snacky-type things that are fighting for space on virgil's coffee table, shoved to the side of the room, whereas others (meredith, freddie, essie, and annabelle) are parked in virgil’s living room with him and patton to watch the collection of christmas movies wyatt had lugged in from his car.

currently, ralphie is fantasizing about going blind from soap poisoning as freddie mouths dramatically along with his parents’ wailing, she and virgil parked beside each other on the ground. freddie doesn’t move too much, though, because she’d loudly complained at essie until she’d started playing with her hair. so essie had obliged, one hand poking out from the blanket she's tangled under with annabelle, brushing her fingers absently through freddie’s hair.

his mom’s in an armchair, which leaves patton lying down on the loveseat so that logan can get some tummy time, heads turned so that they can watch tv. patton keeps absently running his hand up and down logan’s back—well, admittedly, there isn’t much to run his hand up and down, he’s a baby, and a somewhat small baby for his age, at that—and virgil can see logan’s eyes, reflecting the light of the tv.

virgil notices out of the corner of his eyes that he’s seeing less and less of patton’s eyes. they go half-lidded, then closing before occasionally opening, and then—

“patton,” he says softly, just as an experiment, and patton doesn’t so much as stir. it does, however, draw his mother’s attention.

“oh, poor thing’s all tuckered out, isn’t he?” his mom comments, in a suitable undertone.

“yeah, he’s been pretty strung-out lately,” virgil murmurs, and, hesitantly, gets to his feet, hunting for a blanket he’s got stashed somewhere. and then a little odd dance ensues; he puts the blanket over patton without covering logan up too much, and then, carefully, ever so carefully, he lifts logan from patton’s chest and secures him in his arms.

“i didn’t want him to fall,” he explains to his mom, as he tugs the blanket the rest of the way up, to cover patton.

“probably a smart choice,” his mom says. “i could take him, if—“

“no, that’s okay,” virgil says, looking down at logan as he adjusts his hold; logan seems to cuddle closer, and virgil stares as logan lets out a squeaky, strange little yawn. 

“you’re sleepy too, huh?” he asks, and logan’s tongue pokes out, just a little, just enough that something in virgil’s heart feels like it’s swelling from the sheer adorableness of it. 

so virgil settles on the ground in front of the loveseat, and keeps his hold on logan, watching as his eyes slide shut, too.

“strung out?” his mom asks, and virgil would shrug, if he wasn’t holding a baby that’s slowly falling asleep.

“logan’s got colic,” virgil explains in an undertone, “which we’ll probably hear, soon enough, and he’s been working a lot.” a beat, and then, “i think he’s having trouble sleeping too.”

honestly, virgil’s pretty relieved that he’s fallen asleep; the bags under his eyes have been growing deeper and deeper, and his requests for caffeine have started to slide from jokingly desperate to actually desperate.

his mother tsks and murmurs “poor thing” and virgil can practically see her plotting before his very eyes. you know what? not the worst thing in the world. patton could afford some motherly spoiling during his first christmas away from his family. 

hadn’t that kind of been the intention when he’d asked patton and logan to join the family christmas, anyway?

and so his mother plots, and logan snoozes, and essie and annabelle snuggle, and freddie acts along, and patton sleeps.

and keeps sleeping.

the fact that danes’ and colicky logan keep quiet for as long as they do is a miracle. they ensue in furiously silent rock-paper-scissors matches to see whose movie of choice is played next, and when they do speak, it’s in whispers. and logan—honestly, virgil’s not sure if he’s ever been so quiet for such a long stretch of time in his whole  _ life.  _ he’s quiet during  _ the grinch that stole christmas, _ and  _ love actually, _ and  _ it happened on fifth avenue, _ and he fusses a little during  _ the santa clause, _ but it’s easily enough fixed. well. with his dad’s help.

but patton’s  _ nap _ is starting to move into  _ full day’s sleep _ by the time his dad is loading in  _ home alone,  _ and logan lets out a piteous wail, and patton starts awake, hand going to where logan was lying on his chest, and virgil quickly turns so that patton can see logan in his arms.

“oh, hey,” patton mumbles, reaches for logan, and gets to his feet. “hey, hey, hey, you feeling okay?”

“we changed him, earlier,” virgil says, and then patton seems to notice that the  _ sun _ has set, and he startles again.

“i,” he says, and shakes himself. “sorry, virgil, i can’t remember where your bathroom is—?”

virgil points, and patton goes. 

“after this one, i think it’ll be dinnertime,” his dad says thoughtfully.

“finally, i’m starving,” silas says. “did we  _ have _ to delay it for so long?”

“don’t be mean, silas,” essie chides gently. “we’ve waited while  _ you _ took naps.”

“yeah, when we were  _ four,” _ silas says.

“silas matthew,” their father scolds wearily, and silas scowls, fixating his stare on the tv screen, effectively ignoring the rest of them. but he doesn’t shift away when essie nudges him, then puts a hand on his arm, as if to keep him on her left side, annabelle to her right.

well, essie’s always been able to get through to silas when none of them ever have. virgil guesses it’s the twin thing.

if silas stops being an asshole for one day, it’ll be a christmas miracle.

* * *

patton feels... fuzzy.

that’s the best way he knows how to put it, or, at least, it’s the best way he can come up with right now. he isn’t sure how long he’d slept—it had to have been hours—but such a huge amount of sleep at an unexpected time has patton feeling slow, and dazed, and stupid, but that that last bit isn’t too unusual.

the danes’ have kindly—what else is new, they’ve been nothing  _ but _ kind—been politely quiet about how long it takes patton to catch up to their conversations, or understand their jokes, or tune in to their requests to pass coasters or if he wants a bite of the appetizers they’re snacking on as they wind down  _ home alone. _

patton’s claimed the floor. they’d tried to get him to stay on the loveseat, when he came back from feeding logan, but he’d refused. he’d monopolized it  _ all day, _ and really, if he fell asleep  _ again _ then patton would be kissing goodbye to any ragged semblance of a sleep schedule that he still had.

so patton’s on the floor, and mr. and mrs. danes have taken over the loveseat, with virgil beside him on the ground and annabelle in the armchair and wyatt examining freddie’s ankle flexibility, or something, on the couch, freddie peppering him with questions all the while.

essie and silas... huh. patton actually has no idea where essie and silas have got off to. last patton knew, essie had gone back to help silas make some adult-only drinks (”absolutely none for either of you!” meredith had said, clearly not aware of patton’s history with drinking adult drinks since he was about thirteen) about... well, half an hour ago, maybe, and they haven’t been back since.

it’s been easy to be distracted, though, because he’s pretty sure that mrs. danes’ favorite drink is apparently spiked eggnog, and she’s certainly had enough to show it, a pretty pink blush high in her pale cheeks. she’s leaning over, again, cooing softly at logan, who babbles gleefully and reaches for her understated, dully glinting jewelry.

“little hands,” she coos, poking him in the midst of his chubby little palms, and logan babbles, smiling, as she squishes her hands gently between her fingers. 

“little feets! itty bitty baby feets!”

logan squeals as she squishes his feet much in the same way, kicking, and patton doesn’t even realize he’s beaming wide until meredith reaches over to gently squish his cheek between her fingers, too, in a move that’s so thoughtlessly, habitually maternal, so casual in its kindness and affection, it strikes patton dumb.

affection’s been hard to come by, for a lot of his life. affection gives without expectation or later price to pay has been even rarer, maybe even nonexistent. even after his time in sideshire, where it seems to overflow, it overwhelms him.

“and,” she says, turning her attention back to the baby, “a... little... noooose!”

logan proceeds making  _ delightful _ baby noises, and even tries for a few claps of his hands, the way patton’s been showing him, and patton leans in to gently clap above him again, just to show him.

“yay, logan!” he cheers quietly. “yay! can you say  _ yay?” _

he  _ knows _ it’s too early to except logan to talk, but really,  _ yay _ isn’t  _ that _ complicated of a word. it’s just one syllable, and really, logan’s babbling in semi-recognizable syllables now  _ anyway. _

“how about a laugh?” patton prods. “you’re  _ so _ close, can i get a laugh?”

logan’s gotten so close to  _ laughing, _ and he’s on track to  _ laugh, _ even if it’d be early it’s not  _ unheard _ of early, so maybe this’ll do it. he’d love it if he heard his son’s first laugh tonight.

he’s such a smart baby, patton thinks, swelling with pride. really, logan might just be the smartest baby that’s ever lived. he’s pretty sure that every parent thinks that, but really, patton’s  _ pretty _ sure that he’s the right one here.

patton, so overcome by paternal happiness, sweeps logan up into his arms and waltzes his way to his feet, spinning, as he presses noisy kisses into logan’s cheeks,  _ mwahmwahmwahmwahmwah! _ as logan shrieks and squeals and patton spins, so full of  _ love _ for him, and—

and in the midst of his spin, he looks at just the right time, he glimpses a clear shot to virgil’s balcony.

well, it’s really too teeny to be a  _ full _ balcony, like his balcony back at his parents’ house, so it’s really only enough space for two-ish people and a near-indestructible potted fern. it’s more of a mezzanine, or whatever the mini-version of a balcony is called.

and there  _ are _ two people clustered together. silas, his arms wrapped around his stomach, and even in the low light and the distance patton can see that his face is achingly vulnerable, as he bows his head, and essie, equally obviously, empathetic, reaches out her hands to put on his shoulders, and patton just barely sees a snatch of essie pulling her brother into a hug, holding him tight, and that’s it, that’s all patton sees before he continues twirling with his son.

he doesn’t look again. it’s what he’d want, if he was silas. besides, that seems like a pretty private family thing.

* * *

patton’s sure he’s never had such a well-fed, delicious christmas eve in his  _ life, _ and he hasn’t even eaten _ dinner  _ yet _. _

everything looks absolutely mouthwatering—it’s the traditional kind of christmas day meal that he usually has at his parents’, turkey and mashed potatoes and rolls and that kind of thing, except the danes version has clear deviations: green bean casserole, which he’s never had, he doesn’t think, sweet potato casserole with brown sugar and pecans on top, fresh cranberry sauce instead of canned, homemade gravy instead of store-bought, corn made off the cob instead of canned. 

they’d dragged together some tables in the diner rather than attempt to engineer virgil’s tiny table to get nine people (plus a baby) to fit, so they're all seated beside the christmas tree. he’s got his back to the doorway leading to virgil’s apartment, so he’d be able to steal away and tend to logan faster without disturbing anyone, if logan needed it, and he probably would. he’d been so quiet when patton had napped, he’s sure that his schedule’s gotten pretty messed up, too. logan is parked in the carrier, on a booth table, clearly visible to everyone at the table.

well, really, it's mostly for patton's benefit, he's pretty sure, because once he looks away from his son to start paying attention to the conversations around him, he looks back right in time to see meredith looking at him knowingly. 

patton smiles, sheepishly, and she nods, as if to say  _ i get it. _ well, she's had five kids. she probably gets it more than he does. actually, she  _ definitely _ gets it more than he does. patton's absolutely clueless.

but before either of them can say anything, mark gently taps a spoon against his plastic cup—it doesn't provide as clear a  _ ting-ting-ting _ as the crystal-cut glasses his parents would use—and everyone quiets down.

mark lifts his cup.

"another year gone," he says. "it's been wonderful to see you all in town again. now that we're all getting older, it hits me each and every year how precious this time is. of course, i'm proud of you— _ all _ of you—are going out there and making your own life, but i can't help but think about how bittersweet it is that family time is getting fewer and far between."

"aw, dad," freddie mumbles.

" _ but, _ " mark continues. "again. i am  _ very _ proud. of  _ all _ of you."

he meets eyes with everyone at the table, and, after he's inclined his head ever so slightly at patton, patton stares down at his empty plate.

_ not you, _ he scolds himself. _ of course he's not  _ **_proud_ ** _ of you, he's barely known you for six days and honestly, what have  _ **_you_ ** _ done to make  _ **_anyone_ ** _ proud of you? _

it doesn't stop the rebellious little flare of warmth that he feels, though.

"the past few days have been wonderful. i have cherished this time together. i love being your dad—" annabelle looks choked up—"whether you're with me or if you're out making your own life. so," he says, and lifts a glass. "i'll keep the sappy stuff short, as we have this fantastic meal laid out before us. so. merry christmas and a happy new year, everyone."

"merry christmas," everyone rumbles, lifting their glass, and patton belatedly does so too. mark lifts up the platter of cut turkey, and meredith helps herself, before doing the same for him, and the passing of food begins.

patton's plate just about  _ overflows. _

"you know you can get seconds," virgil says to him an undertone, amused, and patton flushes as he attempts to stack his rolls back from where they've toppled off his plate.

"everything looks so  _ good," _ he says defensively. 

"again," virgil says, who really has no room to talk, his food's about to spill over the edges of his plate too, "seconds."

patton decides to do the mature thing: he sticks out his tongue at virgil, shoves one of his rolls into his mouth practically whole, and then tries not to choke on his overlarge mouthful.

virgil stifles his laughter into his glass of wine.

patton's right to have so much on his plate, because everything is  _ amazing. _ patton's world full of fiddly food, more about the aesthetic and the finery than the actual taste, would have never  _ dreamed _ of having food like this, but honestly, everyone might have been a bit more cheerful if they'd stooped to eating food that was prepared in a diner. 

if he'd had these warm, fluffy dinner rolls. if he'd had the fragrant, fruity, frankly yummy fresh cranberry sauce he gets to smear over his rolls. if he'd had these buttery, yummy mashed potatoes with a pool of gravy that he can soak up with his bread. if he'd had the opportunity to try green bean casserole with the crumbly little french onion bits on top. if he'd had  _ sweet potato casserole, _ which patton goes back for seconds before he's even finished his first serving. if he'd had this moist,  _ good _ turkey, rather than the tradition of his father having first carve and then it being ferried away for the servants to do the  _ actual _ carving.

if he'd had people who, even as they gently teased him about taking more food, loaded more on his plate when he was looking away, if he'd had people who were earnest about wanting to know what he'd thought, if he'd had people who were as welcoming of him being the way he is, if he'd had people who were less critical and more accepting, then maybe he would...

patton firmly redirects his thoughts.  _ i'm deciding after christmas.  _ **_after_ ** _ christmas. pay attention to what's happening now.  _

and, in what patton's starting to think is typical of danes style, there's a lot to pay attention to; granted, there aren't a  _ ton _ of conversations happening because of the spectacular, delicious food, but there are still a couple peppering the table that jump freely from topic to topic. there's also a lot of wordless gestures for certain foods (the rolls make quite a few rotations around the table) and salt and pepper and so on, and every once in a while someone will get up to refill their drink and will be met with a flurry of requests, but for the most part, it's... quiet. easy.

_ warm, _ patton thinks. it's  _ warm. _ not just temperature-wise—it is nice and toasty in the diner—but it's  _ warm _ in the sense of how the danes' interact with each other. there are a lot of smiles and compliments on the food and conversation, and... and at this point on a typical holiday, patton's shoulders would be tensed up, waiting for  _ some _ kind of comment, except he's  _ never _ made it this far into the holiday  _ without  _ that kind of comment and  _ stop stop stop. _

there is one thing, without fail, that makes patton feel better. so patton gets to his feet and shuffles over to check on logan, who looks close to falling asleep, pacifier solidly in his mouth, and patton reaches out to run a thumb gently down his cheek.

"you okay?" he asks him softly, and logan blinks at him slowly once, twice, and patton feels the corner of his lip quirk up.

"yeah, you're okay," he says, in the same soft tone, relieved.  _ and you  _ **_will_ ** _ be okay, i promise. no matter what happens, i'll make sure you're okay. _

"is he good?" comes from behind him, making patton jump. he turns back to virgil, who's looking at him quizzically, still seated at the table.

"yeah, he's good," patton says, and smiles wryly at him. "i mean, no telling how long it'll last, but—"

"yeah, he's good," virgil says, and cocks his head. "he looks ready to fall asleep, doesn't he?"

"yeah," patton says, and takes a breath. he'd been right, seeing logan  _ does _ make him feel better. "i should probably leave him to it."

"he'll need you, soon enough," virgil says, so patton goes and sits back down at his spot at the table.

it  _ has _ calmed him down—it's like just taking a second with logan has provided the same effect of a whole, calming  _ day  _ at his parents', not just a few seconds.

so patton throws himself back into the conversation, and keeps glancing over at logan, who even offers him a wave or a noise every once in a while, and it feels... right. it just feels  _ right _ .


	4. chapter four

"you can just point," virgil says to logan, for the fifth time. "it's okay if you just... make _any_ gesture _."_

"um," patton says.

"he's going to pick which one it is," virgil says steadily, ignoring the fact that he's the last of the family who are picking a box from their pile. "i'm always last to pick anyway."

"it's true," says silas, "and why didn't i get to pick this year, again?"

"you'll like it, trust us," meredith says.

"yeah, but—"

"si," essie says, and she's the only one that patton's seen so far that gets no rebuttal for shortening his name, " _trust us."_

silas sighs, grumpy, and slouches over his (pretty sizeable) box.

"just _one_ gesture," virgil wheedles to logan, adjusting him, and logan squalls in protest, throwing his pacifier. which happens to bounce off a purple box.

"you know what?" virgril says to logan, tilting his head. "joke's on you, i'm taking that as a choice, so there."

"i'll take him," patton says, amused, and he picks up logan's pacifier. "i'll meet you all upstairs, i'm just gonna rinse this off really quick."

they all nod, virgil picking up the carrier so that patton won't have to juggle it and an armful of baby, so patton makes a brief detour to the kitchen to wash and rinse off logan's pacifier. really, even with as clean as the diner is, it still touched the _floor,_ so. 

patton ensures it's dry, before he makes an offer of it back to logan. apparently, since he's tossed it, he _does not want it_ anymore, how _dare_ you, and so patton takes a bit of time to walk around and get logan calm before he goes back upstairs, so that a fussy baby won't interrupt anything.

and, thank goodness, it seems like patton doesn't—mark is laughing, showing off one of the new aprons that was in the gift he chose, a _mr. good lookin' is cooking_ one as freddie snorts to herself—so he settles in one of the chairs that's been pushed aside to make room for everyone in the middle of the room, the one next to where virgil's set down the baby carrier.

he carefully lowers logan into the carrier, holding his breath, and logan, thankfully, stays quiet. 

so patton curls up in the armchair and he watches the danes have family time. they open presents in an order that patton doesn't really get—freddie gets the latest book of world records, then essie gets some kitchen tools that make her go "ooh!" so it's not by age or anything—and it looks... really nice, honestly. all of them are clustered together in a messy kind of circle, watching as each person opens their gift of choice. so they go, and go, until—

"last but not least," mark prompts.

"finally," silas says, and begins tearing it open as he's talking. "i get to see why _i_ couldn't pick and everyone else could," he's opening the top of the box, and patton notices everyone in the family grinning, "seriously, this better be..."

he trails off. he stares. his jaw drops, just a little, and patton watches as silas' eyes go wide, and a little shiny, and he seems to just get a little... _softer._

"i," he says, falters, looks up and then back down at the present. "i—i don't—how did you even...?"

"well," meredith says, with a kind of benevolent, easy smile, and she reaches over to squeeze silas' arm and mark copies and they are so _clearly_ being comforting or something to him, what is in that _box?_

and silas _smiles,_ a real, genuine smile. it makes him look nice. it makes him look _good._ and for the first time all visit, patton notices how little silas has been smiling, or excited, and the glimpse of essie and silas on the mezzanine, and it hits him that... that maybe his problem was never really just with patton at all.

silas unearths it, and patton... well, patton doesn't know what he'd expected, really, but it's not what silas pulls out from the box. 

it's... a lego set. one of those big ones that make up a specific thing—patton can spy the millenium falcon, on the side, before silas wraps an arm around it, obscuring his view, but he's still _smiling_ so much.

"i can't believe you got this for me," silas says.

"well, you _begged_ for this, for years, and—" mark begins

"yeah, i," silas says, "i mean, it was—it was _years_ ago, i never expected you to actually—"

"well, we promised, didn't we?" mark says, and simultaneously, silas ducks his head with a laugh, and patton feels like he's been punched in the stomach—

_("—where were you?" patton asks. he's maybe seven, eight at oldest, and he's holding his skirt in his fist, tight, probably crumpling the material that his mother will yell at him for later, as if she has anything to do with the upkeep of their clothes, as if she won't just buy him a new one to dress him up in later._

_"hm?" his dad asks, looking up from the papers, and patton clears his throat._

_"where were you?" he repeats. "it was the school play today."_

_"oh," his father says absently. "was it?"_

_"you and mom promised you'd be there."_

**_and neither of you showed up_ ** _, he doesn't have to say. christopher's latest nanny dropping him off after a 'playdate' is enough evidence for that._

_his father sighs, annoyed, and sets aside his papers. "your mother and i both had meetings, pumpkin, i couldn't very well skip it."_

_"but," patton says, floundering, unable to find words other than "but you_ **_promised."_ **

_"yes, well," his father says, "i'm sure there'll be another one. we can try and make the next one, darling, how about that?"_

_"but—" patton says, voice small, and his father nods, as if the whole situation is settled._

_"why don't you run along, now? i have a lot to get finished, you know."_

_it's not a suggestion._

_"okay," patton whispers, before he tries to swallow before he turns and runs out of his father's office, to fling himself upon his bed and sob, for no one to hear—)_

a tiny voice in his head, with all the finality and gravity of the two paths of his future stretched out in front of him, says, _i want logan to grow up with the kind of family that the danes' are._

and he does. he wants logan to grow up in a warm, loving family, with nicknames for each other, with him looking forward to spending time with his family, with christmas cookies and christmas movies and fights that always seem to get settled and don't leave him heart-achey and hurting for days at a time, with warm, happy time together that feels like it's out of a movie, with the kind of mystical warmth and christmas spirit that's easily within reach, with promises that always get fulfilled.

he wants logan to have that. he wants to _be_ that for him. 

then, the voice continues, _you can't get that with the family that you have,_ and patton can practically _see_ the gilded gates back to his parents' house close, and it's almost anticlimactic, like there's been something in his heart that's known that was how his life was going to go as soon as he'd planted that note in logan's crib, and oh god, oh, _god,_ he's going to be emancipated, he _wants_ to be emancipated, he wants to make his own family and oh god oh god oh god oh god oh _fuck—_

what kind of _person_ does that make him?!

and with that, as the whole danes family is entrenched in their happy moment with silas, patton stumbles blindly to his feet and staggers for the nearest escape he can manage—the mezzanine.

it's bitingly cold, but that's almost welcome as the wind nips at his cheeks and his nose and patton grabs for the wrought-iron railing so he doesn't fall to his knees, because his legs are shaking and _he's_ shaking, so patton blindly grips tighter at the railing and feels the cold wind steal into him and it's almost welcoming as his stomach twists, full of nausea and self-hatred because what kind of _person does that make him,_ what kind of _person_ is he to throw aside his _parents_ and run away and _stay_ away and want a whole new family, what kind of horrible person is he to think about that on _christmas_ _eve,_ and so patton feels his fingers go numb and his nose get cold and there's tears on his face, he thinks, or maybe it's snowing and the cold is hitting his face and melting, he doesn't know, he just knows that it stings, and he deserves it, he _deserves_ it he hasn't even _missed_ them the closest he's come is to missing the _apple tarts,_ the fucking _pastry,_ patton has been missing pastry more than his _own parents_ and they're never going to want to see him again they're never ever going to want to see him again and he's going to _deserve it_ he deserves to stay out here and freeze and his parents would be _right_ to never ever talk to him again and there's a click and a gust of warm air and a feminine voice saying "wondered where you" before falling off and patton lets out a hitching, terrible noise, and "oh, _sweetheart"_ before the warm air goes away.

"i—all right, honey, is it okay if i touch you?"

patton manages a nod, and shudders as meredith pulls him into a hug; she's warm, and she only flinches a little when patton's cold nose makes contact with her skin, and she wraps him up in one arm, cradling his head with her other hand, and patton rests his head on her chest, forehead resting in the crook of her neck, pulled there, almost like a doll, because he's so busy crying, because it isn't snowing, he's been crying, that he can't really negotiate a hugging position.

"can you try to breathe with me, sweetheart?" she says.

and patton tries, he really, _really_ does, except he can barely take in a breath like she is before it gusts out of him in sobs.

"i'm sorry, i'm s-sorry," he chokes out.

"it's all right, sweetheart, it's all right," she says. "you're trying, that's what matters. you're doing a good job."

he _isn't,_ he's doing the opposite of a good job, he's doing a _terrible_ job—

"okay. in again, here we go."

except patton _keeps doing a terrible job,_ he can't even _breathe right,_ how on _earth_ is he supposed to manage a _baby,_ he's going to emancipate himself and he can't even _breathe_ it's pathetic _he's_ pathetic and a terrible person and overemotional and stupid and too sensitive and he—

"patton," she says, and patton tries to gasp for breath.

"y—you don't have to stay," he sobs, in a sort of shuddering way, and she shushes him even as he continues, "i don't wanna r-ruin your christmas, you don't have—"

she shushes him again, and says, "you aren't ruining anything, sweetheart, you aren't ruining anything at all, we were just all saying goodbye when we noticed you hadn't been there for a while, that's all, you're all right—"

patton sobs again, and she brushes her hand through her hair, still breathing deep for him to try to copy.

another rush of warm air, and _"patton,"_ virgil says, hushed, concerned.

"could you make him some tea?" virgil's mother asks him.

"he hates tea," virgil retorts, without thinking, and patton nearly smiles. it's true. he _does_ hate tea. he's kind of surprised that virgil's remembered that, though. nearly no one remembers the kinds of foods and drinks he likes and doesn't like.

"hot chocolate, then," meredith says, and there's a noise, and patton lifts his head, staring.

"logan—"

"i got him," virgil says. "i got him, don't worry, just—"

he leaves, and the door swings shut, and so patton doesn't really have much of a choice but to lie his head back onto meredith's shoulder and try to pull himself back together.

it turns out he gets exhausted more than anything else before he's capable of _pulling himself together,_ meredith continually sweeping her hand through his hair. but he guesses that it must look like he's managed it well enough, because she draws back enough to look at him.

"are you all right?"

"logan," he mumbles, and she lets go of him. 

"we can check on him, if you'd like?"

he does. he _really,_ really does. it's less of a he'd _like_ to check on logan and more like he viscerally _needs_ to check on logan. so she opens up the door for him and patton shuffles into the kitchen, looking around, and virgil glances up at him, logan in his arms.

"is he—?"

"yeah, he's good, just wanted some attention," virgil says. "we've just been kinda chilling. you want—?"

but patton's already reaching out to hold him before virgil can even finish the question, and logan makes an indignant sound of protest before he starts to settle again. patton takes some shaky breaths, holding on tight, staring down at his son.

_i hope i'm making the right choice for you,_ patton thinks. but, again, there's that... there's that _something_ in him. this is going to be hard, yes. this is going to suck a lot, yes. but he thinks... he thinks this is what's going to be best for logan. for _them._ he wants logan to grow up in this place where affection abounds, and everyone is so ready to reach out and help someone who needs it. he wants logan to grow up around the people in the inn. he wants logan to have a horde of honorary aunts and uncles and godparents. he wants logan to know virgil. he wants logan to know he has a loving family, even if it isn't his biological family, but the family they both choose.

he doesn't want logan to grow up expecting his dad to break promises.

patton leans down to press a kiss to logan's forehead, and logan makes a sleepy, content sound. well. at least one of them was easy to calm down, tonight. maybe they'll just swap off for the rest of time.

logan's forehead's very warm, and patton has a moment of panic, before he realizes that he's probably just freezing. he's spent god knows how long out on a balcony in the middle of winter, after all. 

there's a sound, ceramic against ceramic, and patton turns just a little to see virgil, managing to hold three mugs in his hands, before meredith sighs at him just a little and takes one.

"dramatic escape to bury myself and pretend that never happened isn't an option, is it," patton says wearily, and virgil huffs out a laugh.

"not really, but couch or kitchen is."

"um. couch, i guess."

patton moves to plunk the carrier on the coffee table, but virgil does it for him, and patton gives him a look before he sets logan down—he's pretty sure virgil's going to have him drink cocoa, so he needs free hands, and he'd probably feed him if it was any other day, but patton's still stuffed full of christmas dinner and three different kinds of pie.

and, true to form, virgil presses the biggest mug of cocoa into his hands, before he shakes out his throw blanket and wraps it around his shoulders. patton looks at him in surprise.

"it's cold," virgil says defensively, as he tucks him into it. 

"i guess," patton mumbles, and shifts where he's sitting, cradling the cocoa in his hands, letting the warmth seep into his palms. he keeps his eyes on it, too—much easier than meeting anyone else's eyes. _god, way to make it all about you, patton._

"did we do something?" virgil asks hesitantly, and patton's neck just about cracks from how fast he looks up.

" _no,"_ he bursts out. "oh my goodness _gracious,_ no, of course not, you guys have been great, i'm just—"

he chokes up, swallows, and gestures with the mug with a wordless kind of exhalation, and virgil and meredith nod like they understand. they're probably just being nice.

“logan cries all the time.” meredith says, suddenly.

“he’s a _baby,”_ patton says miserably, pressing his fingers under his eyes to try and stop the tears from coming again. “that’s different.”

“is it?” meredith says. “when does he cry?”

something in patton shrinks. a _question._ and he’s going to get it wrong, because he gets _everything_ wrong, because he’s an _idiot,_ he’ll never be good for anything but—

“it’s not a trick question, i promise,” meredith says. “why does logan cry?”

patton bites at his lip, nervous, before he says timidly, “if he’s hungry.”

“good. when else?”

“um. if he needs to be changed, or—or if his colic’s acting up.”

“right,” meredith says. “babies cry when they need things.”

“are you saying i’m… a baby?”

“i’m saying that grown-up people—or teenage people—don’t change all that much from when they’re babies,” meredith says wryly. “would you get angry at logan for crying for something he needs? of _course_ not.”

“but i _shouldn’t,”_ patton says. “it’s—it’s _christmas eve,_ you shouldn’t have to spend your christmas eve with me because i’m c-crying—”

“people cry, sometimes,” virgil says. 

“except i cry _all the time now,”_ patton says wetly. “i’m s-sorry, this was st-st-stupid, _i’m_ stupid, you sh-shouldn’t have to deal with me when i can’t stop crying, um, i’ll go—”

“ _absolutely not,”_ virgil says, so firmly that it freezes patton from where he’d been about to stand. “this is _not stupid,_ this is you reacting to something that is a seriously huge deal, okay? however you’re reacting, for however long, that is _perfectly normal._ okay? not bad, not strange, not _stupid._ ”

_but i_ **_am_ ** _,_ patton would say, but he can only look down at his hands in his lap and take in a shaky breath. 

"do you want to talk about it, sweetheart?" meredith asks, brow creased in concern.

"you don't have to, if you're uncomfortable," virgil says hastily, and he adds, "drink your cocoa, you look like you're freezing."

he takes a sip. unsurprisingly, it's delicious, creamy and rich and _good,_ and so he takes another, deeper sip, and it's like it's warming him from the inside out. huh. turns out he is pretty cold. he ends up drinking about half of the cocoa in one go, then he cradles the mug in his hands again, staring.

well. this isn't _when_ he'd wanted to tell virgil, but it isn't exactly when he'd wanted to have this realization and subsequent breakdown, either, so. patton's gonna have to take what he can get.

"i'm just," he repeats, and he _hates_ how defeated his voice sounds.

"yeah?" virgil prompts softly.

"i—i haven't told you yet, but, um. maria put me in touch with a lawyer to maybe make the whole not-going-back-home thing, like. legal." he swallows. "permanent."

"oh," virgil says.

"yeah."

"i—when?"

"um," patton says, and wearily scrubs a hand across his face. "your birthday? i think that's when i got the—the document, anyway."

"oh," virgil says, and his voice is strange. he's _staring_ at patton, and patton can't read the look on his face, and—

"please don't be angry," patton says, and his voice cracks.

"oh, patton, no, no no no no," virgil says, a tone of panic entering his voice when he notices that patton's started to cry again. "hey, patton, listen, it's okay, i'm not angry, i promise—"

"i'm sorry," patton chokes out, and he scrubs his sweater sleeve under his eyes. “you sh-should be mad at me.”

“well, i’m not, so there,” virgil says, and patton looks down at his cocoa again and tries to breathe deep, to calm himself down, except it comes out hitching and shaky and _definitely_ like he’s still crying—

“aw, buddy,” virgil mutters, and hesitantly shuffles closer to put an arm around patton’s shoulders. patton sniffles, and takes the opportunity to bury his face from their _staring,_ because really this is incredibly embarrassing and he doesn’t _deserve_ comfort, but—

selfish, overemotional creature he is, he’ll take it. he’ll take it for as long as he can get it.

“i’m not gonna be in my family anymore,” patton sobs out.

“hey, that—that’s not true, necessarily,” virgil says. “you’re you, you could work something out—”

“i’m throwing anything nice they’ve ever done for me back in their face and spitting on it—”

“hey, no, no—”

“—because i kept so many secrets for so long and _this included,_ i mean, i didn’t even _tell_ you that i was thinking about being e-emancipated—”

“—which you’re totally allowed to do, if it’s what made you feel comfortable and safe—”

“why are you so _nice_ to me?” patton bawls into his chest. “i’m a _terrible person.”_

“you’re a _good_ person,” virgil says firmly, rubbing a comforting hand up and down his arm. “you are a good person. you just got dealt a really bad hand, and you’re trying to fix it with the tools you’ve got, okay? wanting some distance from your parents does not make you a bad person.”

“they’re gonna _hate me,”_ patton bawls. “i’m an awful son and an ungrateful idiot and i’m a _disaster_ and—”

virgil says, in an even, comforting voice, “you’re a good son, you are _not_ ungrateful, you _definitely_ aren’t an idiot, and, i mean, who can say they aren’t a disaster, sometimes? and they are _not_ gonna hate you.”

“ _i_ hate me.”

“hey, no, no, _no,”_ virgil says firmly. “you are a _good person,_ okay? you’re just going through a lot right now, and that’s okay. just—just let it out.”

and so patton falls apart, and anytime he thinks he’s close to regaining some kind of composure, he falls apart again, and again, and _again,_ and he _really_ doesn’t know how long he spends tear-staining virgil’s shirt, or how long he spends when meredith eventually moves to sandwich him between her and her son, or how long it takes until finally, at last, he gets dehydrated and cries himself into puffy, red eyes, unable to shed anymore tears even if he’d wanted to. 

at virgil’s gentle urging, he finishes another mug of cocoa (the one he’d had before had long since grown cold) and, as he’s staring at the dregs, he swallows.

“i should go,” he says.

“yeah, uh, no,” virgil says. “there’s no way in hell i’m letting you be alone right now.”

a beat, the sense that meredith glowers at virgil over patton’s head, and then he adds, “um, that, except, like, pretend i was more sensitive about it.”

“you don’t have to—”

“patton,” he says. “i would not let _anyone_ who just cried on my shoulder be alone after, let alone _you._ i mean, you could stay _here,_ if you want. you could go with my mom, if you want. just—just don’t go back to the poolhouse. or at least, if you’re going, i’m gonna go with you.”

“i—”

“patton,” he says. “it’s christmas eve. just for tonight, i can help look after logan and we can tell him about santa, or we can eat leftover cookies and cocoa, or you can just go to sleep, or whatever, just… don’t be alone. _please._ ”

patton hesitates. on one hand, he’s kind of embarrassed that he broke down _this_ much in front of virgil and his mom, who patton barely knows, really. on the other hand…

well, on the other hand. he doesn’t want to be alone right now. he really, really doesn’t. and he loves logan, loves him more than he could ever have imagined loving someone, but… well, logan _is_ a baby. he’s not exactly company.

patton chews his lip, before he says, “i don’t have anything to wear.”

“you can borrow some of my old clothes for pajamas, if you want,” virgil says immediately, back straightening up a little, like he’s paying closer attention. “and, um—”

“i can drop by your place to pick up clothes or anything the baby needs and swing by early tomorrow,” meredith says. “mark and i were planning on swinging by early anyway, really, to see if virgil needs any help with breakfast.”

“oh,” patton says. “i—okay. yeah. that works. thank you.”

“do you have a preference? for the clothes i should grab, i mean.”

“oh. i mean, i—i have a box of sweaters? any one of those should work,” patton says. “it should be right by the door. i can just re-wear these pants.”

“box of sweaters, got it,” meredith says. “do you want anything else? water, more cocoa?”

“no thank you.” 

“all right, then,” she says, and gently squeezes his shoulder, rubbing her thumb briefly over his shoulder blade before she rises to her feet and gathers the empty mugs in her hands. “i’ll just drop these off in the kitchen, then.”

she rises to her feet and, with that, logan, patton, and virgil are on their own.

“um,” virgil says. “so, i could. i could grab some stuff for pajamas now, if you want. or we could explain the miracle of christmas to logan. or—”

“pajamas sounds good,” patton says. “i—i kind of just want to go to sleep.”

well, really, it’s less of a _i want to go to sleep_ and more like _this was so embarrassing and i really don’t want anyone to look at me right now,_ but. sure. sleep sounds good too.

“yeah,” virgil says, getting to his feet. “yeah, of course. um—follow me.”

it’s not like patton really needs the direction—this is a one-bedroom apartment, after all—but patton picks up logan’s carrier and obediently plods after him anyway.

virgil’s room is dark, and tiny. there’s a pile of blankets on the bed, messy, which shows patton that virgil doesn’t really make his bed in the morning. there’s a couple discarded clothing items on the ground, like the purple flannel he wore yesterday, and the black hoodie he wore the day before that, but other than that, the room’s pretty tidy, with a few frames dotting the walls, the windowsills, and the top of the dresser, which virgil is now digging around in, so patton can’t see them.

however, he can tell that there are some framed posters on the wall, and patton smiles a little. bands that, a couple weeks ago, he’d been surprised to learn virgil really liked, some art that fits the dark kind of vibe, and—

“disney guy, huh?”

“oh, yeah,” virgil says, and awkwardly smiles at him a little over his shoulder. “um, don’t spill my secrets.”

“cross my heart.” patton says, and does so with the hand that isn’t holding logan’s carrier. 

“okay, so,” virgil says. “um. you know where the bathroom is, here, i’ll take logan so you can get ready for bed. i think i’ve got a spare toothbrush in the cabinet under the sink.”

mostly on autopilot, patton hands over the carrier and accepts the clothes that virgil sets in his arms. he goes into virgil’s bathroom. he closes the door. he plants his hands on the counter, and stares at himself in the mirror.

jesus, he looks awful.

his eyes are red and puffy, his cheeks flushed and patchy, tear-streaked and exhausted. the bags under his eyes are about as deep as they’ve ever been, patton thinks, and that’s just his _face_ and not even going into the rest of his body, which patton has a _much_ more complicated relationship with, and this is not the time to get into this he doesn’t think he _could_ cry again but he doesn’t want to risk it, so. he turns his back to the mirror, and shakes out the clothes that virgil’s grabbed for him.

they. are. _massive._ they are _so big._ like, patton _knows_ that virgil’s taller than him—patton thinks he’s almost exactly a foot taller than him—but it’s almost a whole other thing to hold one of virgil’s old shirts up to his body and watch as the hem falls practically to his knees.

okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration. but it’s not a _huge_ one.

he keeps his back to the mirror as he changes—honestly, it’s fortunate that he’d worn one of the really comfy nursing bras that are meant for sleeping anyway—and ends up drawing the elastic drawstring of the sweatpants as tight as they’ll go, shoving them high on his hips so they can at least catch on the wider part of his belly, because if he wears them like he wears his normal pants they’ll undoubtedly fall down. and even then, patton has to bend to roll up the hem of the sweatpants, so he won’t trip and fall over them. patton usually wears bigger, baggier clothes (hurrah dysphoria) but this is above and beyond patton’s usual fare.

it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t like it, though. he likes it a lot. under this black t-shirt advertising a sideshire winterfest from a few years back, there is only the vaguest suggestion of a body, no telling what gender. the clothes are well-worn and cozy, and patton feels oddly comforted at the sensation of them. (even men’s _clothes_ feel better on him than clothes made for women. he isn’t sure if that’s the sexism or if it’s him being trans, but, _honestly._ the _presence_ of pockets _alone_ are such a gigantic benefit.)

so, after having splashed some cold water on his face and brushed his teeth with the fresh-from-the-plastic-packaging toothbrush that he’d found tidily tucked away along with enough spare toothpaste, shampoo, and soap to last virgil probably until he’s forty, he emerges back into virgil’s bedroom to see him wrestling with a fitted sheet.

“what are you doing?” patton asks, going to peek briefly at logan’s sleeping face from where he’s safely tucked away in a corner—probably the best place for him, really, if he’d been put on the top of the dresser there was the slightest chance that logan might _fall,_ which is a chance that patton doesn’t want to take, and anywhere else in the room there might be a chance that he’ll get stumbled over, or, god forbid, _stepped on,_ so—

“putting down fresh sheets for you,” virgil says, and scowls at the corner he’d just tucked under, as if ensuring that it’ll stay through willpower and intimidation alone. “sorry, i don’t have very many super clean blankets, but i just washed these last weekend so they should be okay—”

patton frowns. “i’m not kicking you out of your bed.”

“that’s right,” virgil says, “ _i’m_ kicking me out of my bed.”

“virgil—” patton begins in a sigh, but virgil’s already shaking his head.

“think about it logically,” he points out. “you have quickest access to the bathroom from here, which means quickest access to a surface that logan might need to be changed on. if you need water or anything, sink’s right there. if you need some privacy to feed logan, you’ve got it—”

“but—” patton tries.

“patton,” virgil says. “i know for a _fact_ that your ‘bed’ in the poolhouse is just a busted old pull-out bed. please just take the chance to sleep in a real, actual bed for the first time in nearly two months.”

patton hesitates.

“consider it a christmas gift,” virgil says, and patton sighs in defeat.

“all right,” he says. “okay, fine. _one_ night.”

“hey, that’s all i ask,” virgil says, and takes a step back. “okay, i think i managed it fine. if it tries to mummify you just yell for help.”

patton huffs out a laugh and extends his leg, so virgil can see how many times he’d had to roll them up. “if your clothes don’t do that first, you giant.”

“i’m 6’2”, that’s normal enough,” virgil says mildly. “you’re just a shrimp.”

“i am _not_ a shrimp!”

“you’re, what, five foot even?” virgil says, and it’s so clear that he’s been joking to try and get patton to smile, but right now it’s just genuine joking for the sake of joking, not even a little pitying.

“five feet, two inches, and a _quarter_ ,” patton says, and jabs a finger in his direction. “do _not_ discount the quarter.”

“yeah, i guess when you’re that tiny, you take what you can get,” virgil says, and patton huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“you know,” he says, “i’m not even done _growing_ yet.”

“a common defense.”

“ _especially_ when i get back on t,” patton continues. “i’ll grow more then. i might even grow a whole _foot._ ”

huh. _when_ i get back on t. not _if_ , not a potential, distant, hazy future thing. _when_ i get back on t. that’s nice to realize, patton thinks. being able to resume transition, that’s something to look forward to in his future, too. so that’s two things on the list. logan, and transitioning.

“that sounds like a whole lot of excuses, for a shrimp,” virgil says. 

okay, three things. logan, transitioning, and gloating to virgil when patton towers over him. 

“i might even be taller than _you_ and then you’ll be sorry.” patton says, shaking his fist up at virgil jokingly. 

“oh, i tremble in fear of the day,” virgil says dryly. “i bet you could team up with the baby, logan might give you some much-needed height.”

“he’s twenty-one inches,” patton says, “so you know what? give us a bit of time, when he’s able to hold up his head reliably i can put him on my shoulders and we can—”

“put on a trench-coat and pretend to be an adult so you can try to buy a ticket to an r-rated movie?” virgil says, and patton weakly punches virgil’s arm even as he laughs, and they settle into comfortable quiet.

until—

“virgil?”

“yeah?”

“um—thanks,” he says, looking at virgil sidelong, and virgil’s looking at him, all quiet and respectful and not even a little pitying, like patton had almost been a little afraid of happening. brown eyes a little shiny, even in the dim light, but steady, and warm. “for—for this.” 

“hey,” virgil says. “what are friends for, right?”

“not just, like, the pajamas, and the bed,” patton continues, “for all of this. the christmas, the food, the helping with logan, and the—the _everything._ ”

a tiny, special kind of smile quirks virgil’s lip.

“i don’t know how i’ll ever be able to pay you back,” patton continues.

“this isn’t a thing to pay back,” virgil says, “you know that, right? that none of this is anything to pay back? all the stuff people do here—they’re doing it to be nice, not because they’re expecting some kind of retribution. well, i mean, they’re probably expecting you to be nice back, but i don’t think you’ll have much trouble with that, since you’re a nice person, so—”

“yeah, well,” patton says, staring at his bare feet, as the sweatpants he’d so dutifully rolled up are starting to puddle around his ankles. “still. thanks.”

“i mean, hey,” virgil says, even softer. “what are friends for, right?”

* * *

meredith watches as her son cautiously tiptoes out of his bedroom, and from the stillness beneath his hoodie that he’s holding his breath. he eases the door painfully, _slowly_ shut, before he turns to her.

“they’re asleep,” he informs her, barely above a whisper.

“good,” meredith says back, in the same tone. “that’s good. let’s go downstairs, i don’t want to risk waking them.”

virgil nods, taking a moment to drop some of his spare blankets on the couch, before he obediently plods behind her, down the stairs, into the diner that once bore her name. none of the other children are there; mark must have sent them along, back to the inn. 

however, mark glances up at the sound of footsteps, taking a moment to hastily finish his sip of tea before setting aside the mug. meredith’s not a betting woman, but if she were, she’d put her bets on lemon balm; most nights, since freddie was born, he’s had a mug of the stuff to wind down before bed. meredith’s more of a chamomile woman, herself.

which is exactly what’s in the mug he nudges before her, and she smiles at him in thanks. it’s probably a bit strained around the edges. she’s going to need a boatload of chamomile to calm herself down, tonight.

“is everything all right?” mark asks mildly, clearly posing it more to virgil than her, and virgil shifts even as he slides into the booth across from them.

“uh,” virgil says. “so, turns out. patton’s been considering getting emancipated and he just now decided that he’s gonna go through with it.” 

“oh,” mark says, and sets aside the teacup with a definite clinking sound onto the table. “dear me. that’s quite a step further than you mentioned when we talked.”

“yeah, since i didn’t know,” virgil says, and accepts the mug of tea that meredith pushes toward him—boy knows better than to refuse his mother food or drink. it doesn’t help the dejected look on his face. “i didn’t even—i just thought he was having trouble _sleeping,_ how did i not know how un-okay he was?”

“oh, virgil—” mark begins.

“i should have _noticed,”_ virgil says. “he comes here almost _every day_ and i didn’t even _notice_ how upset he was until he was having a breakdown on my balcony—”

“cinnabun,” mark says. “it’s very nice that you’re looking out for this boy, but you aren’t a mind-reader. none of this is your fault.”

“of course it’s not,” meredith says. “virgil knows that. don’t you, virgil?”

he _should_ know that. the ways virgil has been helping that poor teenager and that baby, from what she heard through mark, after they met the poor boy for the first time, and maria, when meredith had wrangled her into coffee, is proof enough for that, let alone all the little day-to-day things that she _hasn’t_ heard, that she knows her son is capable of giving. tough exterior, her virgil, with a soft center. he’s the best of the both of them, meredith thinks, briefly bumping her shoulder against mark’s. all of their children are.

but virgil hesitates for just a moment too long, and mark puts his hand on meredith’s before she demand to know _why_ on earth he thinks that it’s his _fault,_ of _course_ it’s not his fault, didn’t he _see_ how much he was helping?

“some people,” mark says, “are very, _very_ good at hiding when they don’t feel okay. you can’t help someone when they’re hiding it. and it certainly isn’t your fault if you don’t see it, at first. that isn’t your fault. you aren’t the one who hurt him. what matters is that you’re doing what you can.”

“i still didn’t see it,” virgil says. “i mean, you—you _always_ see it. with _everyone._ ”

“not always,” mark says. “not with you.”

meredith leans a little harder into her husband’s side.

of the two of them, mark’s always been the sensitive one. always, always. she was the one who brought him flowers on the first date, he was the one to swoon and go sappy over romantic gestures, she was the one who had awkwardly mumbled out a response to his first “i love you,” too unequipped to actually respond properly. he was the one who cried during sad movies, to be swayed to adopting some poor unfortunate animal. he was the emotionally adept one. 

he’s the person that people went to advice. he’s the person he’d be the person to quietly intercede and discuss matters with a diner attendant, and she’d come back to someone crying on her husband’s shoulder. it’s like he has a sixth sense. 

so not cottoning on to the fact that so many of virgil’s teenage behavioral issues were rooted in some deep, emotional conflicts? his own _son?_

mark had taken it hard. they both had, of course, they’d both had their moments in the aftermath of virgil’s diagnosis wondering if there was somewhere they’d gone wrong, relentlessly backtracking their memories to see each and every opportunity they had missed to reach out to virgil and intercede sooner. but for mark, it had been a whole other level. _how could i not see him?_ he’d asked her bleakly, one night. _how could i do that to him? how did we not know as soon as he started acting out? how could i have possibly failed him like that?_

meredith had, perhaps, seen that her husband had taken it hard, and moved to blame the only outward source she could. oh, of course, in retrospect, she _knows_ that remus duke was only a little older than essie and silas, but…

but.

her husband had been hurting. her husband is the emotional one, the soft one. of the pair, she’s always been the angry one, the defensive one, the fighter. for better or worse.

virgil looks into his cup of tea, and mark’s hand moves to squeeze his wrist.

“i’m not trying to blame you,” he says, quiet but firm. “you were hurting. you did what you thought would help. i didn’t understand. what matters is—and i hope you agree—we did what we could to help you when we _did_ understand.”

“you did,” virgil says.

“and that’s what matters,” meredith says. 

“i hardly think you’re just going to abandon that boy and that baby because he’s just now told you about something that’s bothering him,” mark adds.

“of course not,” virgil says, a little offended.

“well, there you go,” meredith says. “you can’t change the past, you can only keep moving forward.”

“emile says the same thing,” virgil says, and then his eyes widen. “i’m an _idiot.”_

“what? no, you’re not,” meredith says heatedly. if emile picani has taken a sudden turn to cruelty she’ll march right in there and—

“ _emile,_ ” virgil says, and opens and closes his hand. “someone has to have a pen—”

meredith takes one out of her pocket—waitress hobbies run deep—and virgil scribbles a few times on the corner of a napkin to get the ink flowing. meredith tilts her head in order to read what her son is scrawling.

_emile picani,_ the address, phone number, and _he’s my therapist. i know he has experience with emancipation stuff and he does pro-bono confidential stuff for teenagers, if you ever want someone else to talk to about everything. he’s a bit weird (_ ** _really_** _into cartoons) but he’s a really good guy._

“just so he has the info,” virgil explains, folding the napkin into a crisp square. “god, i can’t believe i didn’t think of emile until now.”

meredith frowns. “haven’t you been seeing him lately?”

virgil shrugs. “holiday hours, for the both of us,” and, presumably because he can see the pair of them gearing up for a lecture, “i had an appointment in november and i’ve got an appointment sometime in the middle of january, i’m still taking my meds, i’m doing pretty okay on the whole anxiety front, promise.”

“pretty okay?” meredith repeats. she’d sure hope that her son was doing a lot better than _pretty okay._ she’s really hoping that all of her children are _deliriously happy._

“kinda hard to be like _yeah, i’m doing real good with anxiety,_ mom,” he points out, and she cedes the point.

oh, not for forever, of course. she’ll be asking after him whenever she can get him alone. but she’ll cede it for _now._

“do you think he’ll go?” mark asks.

“i’ll encourage it, and i’m sure if i mention it to maria, she will too,” virgil says. “i’ll make sure and grab one of his pro-bono cards so that patton knows it won’t be too expensive or anything. so. we’ll see.”

he pauses, before he says, “i think it’d be really good for him to, y’know. talk to _someone_ about everything. having a kid, running away. his parents.”

aaaand that’s what makes meredith snap.

“ _parents,”_ she hisses. 

“mer,” mark begins, with the distinct tone of _now, let’s keep our heads,_ but meredith shakes off any of _that,_ because—

“what kind of _parents_ raised him to think you’d be _angry at him_ for being _upset,”_ meredith snarls. 

“shitty ones,” virgil agrees, scowling, and meredith jabs a finger at him in agreement as mark sighs at him for swearing, before doubling down and saying “real _fuckin’_ shitty ones.”

“virgil,” mark says, in warning.

“he’s _right,”_ meredith says. “mark, if you’d seen how upset he was—”

well, patton would have gotten calmer a lot faster, probably. mark was always better with crying than her—even back when the kids were all babies. the only surefire way she could calm them down when he couldn’t was when it came to feeding time.

“they _are_ his parents,” mark says.

“which is _exactly_ what he would say,” meredith points out. “what, just because they’re his parents, he should tolerate them treating him badly?”

“of course i’m not saying that,” mark says, placatingly. 

“virgil,” meredith says. “how bad did that boy have it, before he got here?”

virgil hesitates. meredith leans forward.

“i need to know if i should swear to kill them or not,” she says, joking only a little. virgil’s lip quirks, ever so slightly, so she guesses she’s succeeded.

“but, seriously,” she continues, “we’re all thinking the same thing, right? about helping patton give logan a great first christmas, by giving _patton_ a great first christmas away from home?”

virgil nods.

“right then,” meredith says. “is there anything we should know?”

“he hasn’t told me _tons,”_ he cautions them. “and this—y’know. this should be kept quiet. as far as i know, it’s—it’s just maria and me who know this stuff.”

“if you’d be betraying confidences,” mark begins, but virgil huffs out a breath.

“i was kind of planning on going to see emile about it anyway,” and _oh,_ even if the sobbing, near-hysterical teenager hadn’t been a hint, that’s another big one. though this is something that, admittedly, she and virgil might not see eye-to-eye on, virgil’s therapy habits are sound. meredith thinks he should go more frequently; virgil makes appointments sparingly, to discuss things that _really_ weigh on his mind. he tends to rely on other coping mechanisms before he goes to therapy.

planning to go see emile about something was a surefire sign that virgil was, well. anxious.

mark exchanges a look with her—clearly, he’s come to the same conclusion—and meredith takes a sip of her tea, mostly for show. she can barely even taste it.

“so,” meredith says. “patton’s… history.”

virgil sighs, a long, gusting breath, and traces his pinky once, twice, thrice around the rim of his mug, trying to gather his words together.

“patton’s family is rich,” virgil says bluntly. “ _really_ rich. sickeningly rich. i looked up a few of the organizations that patton mentioned his mom was a part of and this one art piece that patton said they had in his house that he hated and they’ve got to be, like. i don’t want to ask patton and pry too deep, but they’ve gotta be multi-millionaires, easy. that might even be the low end of the prediction spectrum.”

“oh,” mark says, and meredith wonders if his mouth has gone as dry as hers has. _multi-millionaires._ well, you wouldn’t predict that just by _looking_ at patton, with his secondhand sweaters and ill-fitting jeans and also the fact that he lives in a _poolhouse_. “goodness me.”

“yeah,” virgil says. “so. i dunno what patton’s dad does exactly, he told me but i kind of forgot. i think it’s insurance or banking or something, and his mom is on like a million committees, and they’re old money, i guess, so they pride themselves on contributing to _society_ or whatever. stereotypical snooty rich people. you know the type.”

not _personally_ —it’s not like stereotypical rich people tend to frequent diners—but as a business owner, meredith knew the type, or at least, the kids of those related to the type. convinced that since they were born with a silver spoon in their mouths, their lives were just as hard as the lives of families like meredith’s, who’d had to count pennies and struggled their way to each payday just to barely scrape by. and that they were _better_ than people like her and her family, and that they had one something to deserve their amount of privilege and fortune rather than just hit the lottery in the genetic draw.

“anyway. so. his parents…”

virgil huffs out a breath, and takes another deep one in, and meredith probably shouldn’t be surprised that he looks like he’s fighting to keep calm. usually, he doesn’t take after her in conflicts; that is to say, virgil’s never been very shouty.

“his parents,” meredith repeats, trying to urge him onward. 

_who patton wants to separate himself from legally, and felt the need to run away with a_ **_newborn_ ** _, and is willing to give up all those multi-millions of dollars just to get away from them._ meredith feels a creeping sense of dread in her stomach.

“i _hate_ them,” virgil spits out, and then an almost-surprised look at his own vitriol that flashes across his face, before he doubles down. “i mean—jesus, i’m _twenty-three,_ and _i_ know that it isn’t a good parenting move to keep telling your kid their life plan that’s detailed down to the _very college dorm_ and expect them to keep at it perfectly despite the fact that he’s his _own person,_ for fuck’s sake,” and he’s _off._

it’s evident that an appointment with emile is probably the right call for all of this, because how was virgil supposed to help a sixteen-year-old kid? it’s not like virgil’s in the habit of making friends with sixteen-year-olds, since he’s _twenty-three,_ but patton has so few people on his side, not even his own _parents,_ so virgil’s all in for him and that tiny little baby that are both asleep upstairs.

it’s evident that an appointment with emile is probably the right call for all of this, because virgil had no idea how to strategize how to help this poor homeless _kid,_ who sleeps on an old pull-out couch (maria had said that the latest mattress to get harmed in some way was going straight to patton but how often did an inn guest harm their _mattress?!)_ and won’t let people lend him any money and virgil’s _trying_ as much as he can, giving him a newly-invented family-and-friends discount and inviting him to do some odd jobs at the diner on the weekends just so he could make sure that he’s getting fed and has some money to save and how is he supposed to _help_ when patton was so wary of it?

it’s evident that an appointment with emile is probably the right call for all of this, because how was virgil supposed to help patton transition into learning that being treated with kindness wasn’t a _debt_ to pay and that not everyone has it out to lecture him about every little thing he does wrong.

it’s evident that an appointment with emile is probably the right call for all of this, because meredith’s about ready to take the car and drive into the city to give them a piece of her mind. meredith doesn’t want patton near those people, but if she ever has the opportunity to meet them—

“i’ll _kill them,”_ meredith says, cold and bleak, and virgil meets her eyes.

and, for maybe the first time she’s ever made that threat, she isn’t sure how much she’s kidding.

from the glint in virgil’s eyes, she’s pretty sure that he doesn’t know how much he’s kidding, either.

mark, always the level-headed one, lays his hand over hers.

“hey, now,” he says, and then, “that’s hardly in the christmas spirit, is it?”

“i don’t feel particularly christmassy,” virgil mutters. 

meredith can’t help but agree. christmas is supposed to be about laughing children, the glee of tearing shiny wrapping paper off that gift you weren’t expecting and yet was so _perfect_ that you should have been expecting all along, cuddling with her husband on the couch with a warm mug of (spiked) eggnog in her hands, watching their children play and talk as they bounced around with the boundless energy of youth that only seemed escalated by a christmas morning, the solemn beauty of a congregation singing christmas hymnals, the warm feeling of all of humanity taking a day, just a day, to remember that they’re all in this together and to reflect on what’s important: family, and friends, and kindness, and good will to all.

christmas wasn’t supposed to be heartbroken, abandoned, homeless teenagers. christmas wasn’t supposed to be screaming babies. christmas wasn’t supposed to be about missing something that he should have had to sever himself from. christmas wasn’t breakdown after breakdown. christmas was supposed to be a lot of things, but not sad. never, ever sad. 

and, meredith thinks with a surge of that old, familiar anger, it wasn’t about to be. she wouldn’t let that happen.

she’s on her feet before she even realizes it, and both mark and virgil blink up at her in surprise.

“we all agreed that we invited patton to our family christmas because we wanted him to have a great one,” she says, shrugging on her coat and grabbing her purse. “so, we’re going to give him a great one.”

“uh—i mean, sure, mom, that sounds great,” virgil says. “but it’s nearly midnight on christmas eve. what—how are we going to do that?”

meredith smiles, letting it unfurl on her face.

“oh, god, no, i know what that look means,” mark says, then, slightly more pleading, “meredith, honey, it’s _christmas._ ”

“what?” virgil says. “what does it mean?”

“it means,” meredith says, smiling as wide as she can, “that i’m going to go and raise hell as a special christmas treat for taylor doose.”


	5. chapter five

“can not.”

“can too.”

“can not.”

“can  _ too,” _ and the argument really would have continued if she didn’t step in now.

“you know he’s not going to stop until you prove it, fred,” essie points out, amused, even as silas pulls a face at her. 

“but she  _ can’t _ prove it, because doing that is  _ physically impossible,” _ her twin brother points out. 

freddie puffs out her chest proudly. “watch me,” she brags, and essie politely averts her eyes because she loves her little sister, she really does, but the way she bends her body sometimes makes her stomach twist.

from silas’ “ugh,  _ gross!” _ and wyatt’s tame “hm, interesting,” it was probably good that she did, and meets eyes with annabelle, who smiles at her, amusement making her eyes twinkle.

“i knew you had a sensitive stomach, but i didn’t know it was  _ that _ bad,” annabelle teases, soft enough that the others won’t hear. 

essie sticks her tongue out at her fiancée (and she wonders when she’ll stop feeling butterflies when she thinks about  _ marrying _ annabelle) and annabelle giggles, just a little, before reaching and twining her fingers with essie. essie suppresses her happy sigh and uses it as an excuse to wiggle closer.

the entire danes family was staying at the independence inn for the holiday (well, with the exception of virgil, but that’s expected) and that’s where the four elder danes siblings, plus a danes fiancée, were staying. they’d managed to get an adjoining suite that consisted of a room with two queen beds, a couch, and a bathroom for each, with a door connecting the two. essie and annabelle in one bed, silas and wyatt in the other in their room; since freddie had come first, she had a bed to herself in the other, with their parents in the last remaining bed. 

it wasn’t like essie had stayed in the inn very much, but it hadn’t changed a lot. the inn still had the same antique, historical furniture, the same navy blue duvets, the same dark gray couches and floral wallpaper and little chocolates on the pillow (annabelle had let essie eat hers, which really,  _ that’s _ true love.) same staff, mostly, other than the natural turnover that came with a lot of high school and college kids who picked up shifts as one of the few places to get a part-time job in sideshire. 

yeah, the inn hadn’t changed a lot. a lot of things in sideshire hadn’t changed very much, which essie found comforting. sometimes, she thought about how even years and years down the line, whenever she came back to visit virgil or childhood friends, taylor doose would still pick fights with her mother; the gazebo would still stay dreamily lit at night; there would still be a million fairs and festivals and ceremonies to attend; there would still be petty town meetings and Town Meetings, the first for town gossip that had bit too much into the time of the official Town Meetings, which dealt with tiny ordinances and regulations (and, to taylor’s eternal dismay, the unofficial town meetings would almost always garner the most interest and attendance.) same mayor porter, and same rudy, editor of the town’s decrepit newspaper, same maria who managed the inn. same danes’ family running the town’s diner.

even though essie felt like she’d changed so much, and yet not at all. strange. comforting.

home.

there’s the sound of keys clattering, then the door in the other room opening, and all of them seem to stir from their various lines of thought.

“mom and dad?” freddie says. “finally, wonder what took them so long?”

“they were probably prepping food for tomorrow, fred,” essie guesses.

no one else can make very many other guesses, before their mother’s voice cheerfully says, “like that, do you think?”

“you know, we could wait until the morning,” and they all blink at each other. virgil’s here. not home.

“what’s the point of that?” their mother asks, then, raising her voice, “kids, you there?”

“hi, mom,” freddie calls, and their mother leans through the doorway, grinning wide.

“good! get your coats!”

she vanishes back into their room while everyone blinks at each other, confused.

“our coats?” silas calls back, uncertainly.

“and one of you, bring your pocket knives in here!” 

“pocket—?” essie begins, but wyatt shrugs, digging his out, and moving into the next room.

“here, mom.”

“thank you, sugar,” she says, sounding pleased, and essie gets up with annabelle to see what’s going on.

annabelle comes in next, and says, “what’s happening?”

“here, right?” meredith says, gesturing at the side of the mattress with the knife.

“probably the least invasive way to damage a mattress, yeah,” cara says; they’d been together at school, she and cara, it had been a bit surprising to hear how high she’d climbed on the inn’s employment ladder.

“again, mom, you could do this in the  _ morning,” _ virgil says.

“but it won’t be a surprise then,” meredith points out.

“pretty sure it would.”

“um,” essie says, “why are we doing damage to a mattress as a surprise?”

“mom’s lost it,” virgil says wearily.

“shut it,” meredith says cheerfully, and then, with the same smile on her face, plunges the knife into the side of the mattress, using both hands to tug it enough to create a sizable slash, a disconcerting contrast. she removes the knife and tilts her head at it critically. “that good, do you think?”

“yeah, definitely fits the parameters,” cara says. “i’ll get one of the mattresses from an empty room in here for you, to replace this one. thanks, mrs. danes, i know maria was trying to figure that out.”

“oh, no problem,” she says breezily, waving a hand. “thank you for putting up with my late-hours shenanigans.”

cara nods and goes into the hall.

“well?” meredith says, and claps her hands. “coats! coats, everyone!”

silas gives her a Look, but she just shrugs at him and moves back into the other room to pick up her and annabelle’s coats. 

once her mother surveys all of them and decides they’re all properly kitted out, she opens the door.

“let’s go!”

“go  _ where,” _ silas grumbles.

“where else?” their mother says, and she beams beatifically—their dad, on the other hand, looks exasperated. granted, fond, but definitely still exasperated. “none of us have had the opportunity to  _ fully _ bother taylor doose on this trip home.”

freddie and silas both scramble for the door.

“silas!” she scolds, a laugh in her voice, and grabs annabelle’s hand to more fully chase after her younger-by-seventeen-minutes brother. 

it’s not a very long walk to doose’s market, nowhere in sideshire is a very long walk—and their mother stops them, and surveys the road, hands on her hips, every inch a general.

“right,” she says, with a decisive nod. “there’s enough snow on the ground. get packing into snowballs, kids.”

freddie outright  _ cackles _ as she plunges her hands into the nearest snowbank, virgil not far behind.

“so, this taylor guy—” annabelle says in an undertone, as the pair of them bend to scoop snow into their hands.

“taylor doose,” essie elaborates.

“right,” annabelle says. “um, what’s the deal between him and your mom, anyway? it feels like every year i see your mom picking a fight with him.”

“oh, you know how it is,” essie says, trying to keep an airy tone. “small town feuds. it’s been going on for years, no one really knows what—”

“ess,” annabelle says, amused. “why are  _ you _ getting involved in it?”

essie looks around, as if taylor’s listening. “because…” 

“because?” annabelle prompts, when essie bites her lip and ducks her head.

“because it’s  _ really _ fun,” she admits with a guilty grin on her face.

annabelle laughs and leans in to kiss her on the cheek. “troublemaker.”

“am not,” essie says. “virgil’s the delinquent and freddie’s the one who’s going to backflip her way through the window, if we let her.”

“yeah, and you’re the one with the innocent face to let them get away with it,” annabelle says. 

“maybe so,” she sniffs, and ascends to her feet, a couple snowballs in her arms.

“right, then,” meredith calls out. “everyone ready?”

noises of affirmation from every danes in the street.

meredith arches her arm back, aims, and fires, her snowball hitting the window of the apartment above the grocery with a  _ WHAP! _

and then the rest of them take their cue from there.

there’s constant  _ WHAP! _ s against the window as they all aim and throw—silas and freddie have the best aim, unsurprisingly, they’ve always been the most athletic of the five of them—but that almost doesn’t matter. 

because essie was telling the truth, in why she gets involved with messing with taylor when she normally wouldn’t dream of deliberately being a nuisance to another person: it’s  _ fun. _ taylor, in all his grudge-keeping, self-important, self-aggrandizing stuffiness was just  _ fun _ to pick at and poke at and badger incessantly, partially because of his reaction, but mostly in the way that it brought them all together.

because wyatt is so rarely silly and pejorative, much more inclined to his theories and his books; because silas is so rarely teasing without being a little caustic about it, and seeing his sharp tongue applied to someone who actually  _ deserves _ it a little is an absolute treat to behold; because freddie, well, freddie’s  _ freddie, _ she’s pretty constantly a bombastic, fun-loving force of nature, but when they were all picking on taylor it seemed to be taken up to an extra level; because virgil so rarely smiles at something so obviously, and ever since his fierce bender as a teenager (essie had mostly been at college, when it had gotten really, really bad) it’s just nice to see him channel that energy into something, well, not  _ productive, _ exactly, but something that wasn’t sneaking out of windows or breaking them.

maybe, she thinks, because she—normal, sweet, shy, kind essie, the  _ good _ kid, the one they didn’t have to worry about all that much—was so rarely a hellion, and maybe fighting with taylor was one way to let her hair down that didn’t involve annabelle gently saying that if she got tipsy at a bar, cut loose, had a little fun dancing, didn’t mean it was the end of the world, didn’t mean that she wasn’t still normal, sweet, shy, kind essie, the one nobody has to worry about all that much, if she made out with her fiancée in the middle of the dance floor and did something a little naughty.

but now, as they all unite in hurling snowballs at taylor doose’s apartment window, cheering each other on and whooping whenever they get a good hit in, congratulating each other, it’s a bit like they’re all kids again and the world’s biggest trouble is getting back at taylor doose for trying to be mean to their mom.

and essie sees a distant light turn on, and the window starts to open, and

“oh for goodness’  _ sake, WHA— _ ”

meredith fires one last snowball and it lands its arc true, right as taylor opens the window, and the eight of them burst into laughter as taylor splutters around a mouthful of snow. even her dad, though at least he’s covering his mouth to seem polite.

“meredith,” taylor says sourly, and essie takes a look at him.  _ wow, _ he’s actually wearing a stocking cap to bed. essie didn’t know people did that outside of, like, old novels and cartoons. “is there a particular  _ reason _ that you’re causing this ruckus at midnight, right before a holiday?”

“oh, shove it, taylor,” meredith says heartily, hands on her hips. “open the store.”

his brow furrows deep enough that it’s visible on the street. “and just  _ why _ should i do that?”

“good will toward your fellow woman?” freddie tries.

taylor scoffs, and moves to pull the window shut again.

“open the store!” meredith calls, and then, essie isn’t sure who starts it—freddie, probably, or maybe even annabelle—but soon all eight of them are chanting “OPEN IT, OPEN IT, OPEN IT, OPEN IT,” even as taylor bellows, “i could file a noise complaint!”

“or you could just open the damn store, taylor!” meredith hollers back. “it’s eight paying customers or eight people with throwing arms and capable lungs!”

taylor draws himself up, clearly warring with himself, before he deflates and sighs, to a chorus of danes (and annabelle’s) cheers.

“fine!” he shouts. “but if you stay in that store for longer than it is  _ absolutely necessary _ , you will be hearing from the sideshire business association, the sideshire tourist board, the sideshire neighborhood watch organization—”

“those are all  _ just you!” _ silas yells. “the sooner we get done, the sooner you don’t have to see any of us for another year! other than virgil.”

“yeah, thanks, silas,” virgil says, with an eyeroll.

taylor scowls, but slams his window shut and, presumably, with a huff. usually, whenever taylor did anything that didn’t comply with his exact agenda, it was with a huff.

“all right, lists!” the mother announces. “i have lists, come and get a list—silas, here you are—”

“lists?” annabelle mumbles quizzically into essie’s ear, and she shrugs, just as lost as annabelle is, but she accepts the hastily-scrawled list that’s on one of the diner’s notepads—essie knows, she’d worked in that diner for the vast majority of her life—and squints at their options.

“i’ve got a ton of food,” silas says. “what about you?”

“um,” essie says, and scans it. “same here, ‘cept it’s nonperishable stuff. donations, maybe?”

“i guess,” silas says, and essie bumps shoulders with him.

“you good?” she checks.

silas clears his throat, and scuffs his boot through the snow. “yeah, m’fine.”

“okay,” essie says, and silas scowls, as if he detects the underlying  _ it’s just that i was hugging you on the balcony a few hours ago while you spilled your guts on everything going wrong in your life, so forgive me if i don’t think you’re exactly telling the truth _ that she isn’t saying. he probably can.

that’s the way with the two of them: if one ever couldn’t do something, the other one probably could. essie couldn’t confront people for anything, so silas was the one who’d shoved bullies to the ground and yelled at them. but silas wasn’t very good at being gentle, so essie was the one who put band-aids on their friends’ knees and tried her best to kiss them better.

if one of them was having trouble, the other one could usually try and pull them out of it. essie was usually the puller, back in school—silas was a brawler, and a sasser, and didn’t have much patience for things he thought he wouldn’t use in real life.

she wishes helping him now was as easy as telling mrs. replegol that she’d accidentally put his math homework in her backpack, and handing over a paper that she’d hastily filled out during lunch, trying her very best to disguise her neat writing into silas’ untidy scrawl.

“you can always come stay with me, if you want,” she tries, and silas scoffs.

“i’ve seen your apartment,” he mutters.

“it’s not  _ that _ bad,” she says.

“it’s tiny,” silas says. “where’d i stay? your couch?”

“yes,” she says, and, when silas sighs, “we could make a fort, like when we were kids. or we’d figure it out. you know you can come over anytime.”

“does annabelle—”

“annabelle can hear you, and annabelle says go for it,” annabelle says, not looking up from where she’s re-tying her boot. “annabelle also doesn’t appreciate being talked about in third person when she can hear you.”

silas grimaces in apology, and when annabelle gets to her feet again, taylor’s opening the front door of the store, effectively ending their conversation there. but essie loops an arm through annabelle’s, and her other arm through silas’, and tugs them both along into doose’s grocery.

she can practically  _ feel _ that silas and annabelle are exchanging a look behind her back, but she doesn’t really care.

unsurprisingly, doose’s market hasn’t changed much at all, either; everything’s where it was when essie was a teenager, and it doesn’t take her very long to gather up the cans of food and baby food that her mother had hastily scrawled down.

the other four siblings are split amongst the store, gathering things up—wyatt’s got things like paper towels and diapers, whereas freddie has, like, yarn or something?—so really, it’s probably good that they’ve all got separate lists. even if essie has  _ zero _ idea what’s happening.

she sidles up to virgil’s side, and says, “ _ you _ wouldn’t happen to know what spurred on this massive shopping spree, would you?”

virgil pauses, glancing around, and says, “you know how mom and dad kept dragging in all those stray cats and dogs when we were kids?”

the puzzle pieces assemble in her head almost immediately.

“so, welcome to the family, patton, here’s everything you could possibly need, merry christmas?” she guesses, and virgil nods.

“something happened to him after we left,” she guesses, quieter. and virgil, stony-faced, nods.

“poor guy,” essie murmurs. “is he… i mean. is he okay?”

“how would you rate  _ first christmas without his family, _ ess?” virgil says, and essie winces.

“right. sorry. stupid question.”

virgil winces, too, and says, “sorry. sorry, i shouldn’t snap at you.”

“no, i get it,” essie says. “long day.”

“still,” virgil says, mouth set and stubborn, and essie smiles at her baby brother, reaching out to squeeze his arm.

“you’re sweet,” she says and means it. he is sweet. for all his bluster and gruff, sometimes, and yes, even as a rebellious teenager, virgil had never  _ not _ been sweet, no matter how he tried to hide it. he’s thoughtful, and kind, and essie’s glad that he’s helping out patton and the baby. she really is.

virgil, however, flushes and ducks his head, mumbling a denial, before he escapes to finish up his shopping, and essie grins after him before she goes to do the same.

gosh, she knows neither of them like to hear it, but virgil and silas  _ really _ do have a lot in common.

taylor scowls at them all, muttering under his breath about danes’ even as he scans them all out, and bellows “good riddance!” as soon as they all leave the store.

“merry christmas, taylor!” their mother yells back, and taylor grimaces even as he pointedly closes the blinds.

“where should we go with these?” wyatt asks, laden with shopping bags. they all are, really.

“fresh food at the diner, the rest of it’ll come back to the inn,” meredith says decisively.

“here, i’ll trade,” virgil says. “i can meet you back there.”

so virgil and silas swap shopping bags, and their dad suddenly says, “i’ll help too, bunny,” and essie moves forward to take  _ his _ bags too, and as soon as they’re all sorted out all of them tramp back to the inn.

on the way, essie sees cara directing a couple people that essie doesn’t know, the pair of them carting the mattress their mother ruined down to the inn’s poolhouse. essie’s about to ask, but decides that her mom will probably know, and instead moves to catch up with annabelle.

“what’s up with that?” annabelle says, jerking her chin toward them.

“oh, i have no idea,” essie says. “storage, maybe?”

“yeah, i guess,” annabelle says, and shakes her head after it; she’s always been a little confused by the more  _ unique _ aspects of sideshire, which makes sense, really. if essie hadn’t been born into it, she’d be plenty confused too.

“that was fun,” annabelle continues. “the—snowball thing.”

essie laughs. “yeah, it is,” she says, and looks over at annabelle. “what?”

annabelle shakes her head, smiling. “nothing. it’s just—you’re so cute when you laugh.”

essie blushes; silas boos.

“gross,” he says.

“shut _up_ , silas,” essie grumbles.

“yeah,” annabelle says, grinning, “shut up, silas.”

“nope, i’m with silas on this one,” freddie says, catching up with them. “couples are gross, especially when half of that couple is my sister.”

“kids, stop picking on your sister,” their mother calls, and gestures for them to get inside, and into the room.

and so begins the process.

their dad and virgil come in not too long after, with even  _ more _ shopping bags, and join the sorting process: last-minute presents there, food there, baby supplies there. essie and annabelle take the sky-blue wrapping paper that their mom had bought at taylor doose’s, one of the last ones left, and wrap up the yarn and sweaters and books and baby toys.

it’s blatantly a last-minute gift haul, but essie doesn’t think they did too bad. admittedly, she doesn’t really know patton that well, but he’d seemed nice when they all had dinner together, both tonight and when essie and silas first came to town, and she’d thought he looked cute with his baby all day today, and felt a bit bad for him when he’d dozed off so readily and virgil had muttered something about overworking himself. she has the feeling patton’s probably the kind of person who’d appreciate any gift someone got him, anyway.

it doesn’t stop virgil and their dad from clucking, though.  _ will he like this _ and  _ oh, we should get _ and  _ are you  _ **_sure_ ** _ he stays warm enough where  _ but that’s where they cut off, looking at the rest of them, busy as they are at wrapping last-minute presents or just chatting amongst themselves.

essie stifles her grin as she watches virgil closely examine a toy, as if a teddy bear was an inherent threat, their father making a near-identical face as he makes sure that he’s wrapped a present properly.

mother hens, the pair of them. 

of course, essie thought, as she caught her gaze moving to annabelle for the ten dozenth time that night, to make sure that she’s there, and satisfied, and happy, it’s not like they’re the only ones in the family.

* * *

patton’s stopped jolting in surprise whenever he gets woken up by an unexpected sound, because lately, the unexpected sound’s a baby.

_ his _ baby, to be very specific. but just because he doesn’t jolt anymore doesn’t mean he’s really stoped feeling sleep-slow and stupid whenever he wakes up in the middle of the night.

well. it’s not like he  _ ever _ really stops being stupid, but.

he shakes himself—he has a crying baby to tend to, so he stumbles over to the corner and lifts logan out of the carrier, trying futilely to hush him, conscious of virgil just beyond the door, conscious of logan’s colic. conscious, generally.

“hey, fella,” patton mumbles to logan, and bounces him, just a little, and starts walking, because moving around usually calms him down. “hey, hey, what’s wrong, hon?”

it turns out it’s a diaper change, and really thank goodness patton always packs extra, because he doesn’t know what he’d do, otherwise. he’s pretty sure that virgil doesn’t also have diapers stashed away with this baby carrier that logan’s sleeping in. 

but logan doesn’t want to seem to go back to sleep after patton’s changed him, and so patton acquiesces, pacing circles around virgil’s darkened bedroom and noticing all kinds of little things he’d missed when he was fresh out of a sobbing session, and embarrassed, and upset.

he’s still a little bit of all those things, of course, especially the upset and embarrassed parts, but that had been kind of near-constant ever since he ran away.

he had noticed the framed photos on top virgil’s dresser, but not of what they pictured: a family shot of all of them flanking virgil in sideshire high’s red-and-gold, virgil with a cap and gown on, grinning sheepishly at the camera; freddie, in the midst of a dance performance, looking very refined and graceful, arms stretched and leg extended in a way that would make patton’s legs ache, if he could even half-manage it; wyatt, as a kid, with who must be a toddler virgil staring wide-eyed as wyatt patches up a stuffed raccoon; essie with her ringed hand thrust toward the camera, in the midst of a kiss with annabelle, an engagement photo if he’s ever seen one; silas and virgil’s parents, sitting at one of the tables in the center of a desolate diner, deep in conversation and completely unaware of the camera; virgil, at the age patton is now, wearing a spiky leather jacket and a torn-up t-shirt, scowling, as the mustached man’s arms are thrown around his neck in a near choke-hold, pressed up against his back, baring his teeth at the camera— _ remus, _ patton remembers, the man’s name is remus. 

it is, patton thinks as he bounces logan, a handy little collection of all the people virgil loves, sitting upon this dresser. 

patton wonders if he’ll warrant a spot one day.

immediately, he feels his face heat and turns away;  _ this isn’t your room, _ he scolds himself.  _ stop snooping. _

a voice that sounds remarkably like his mother seems to murmur in his ear,  _ it would hardly be considered snooping if he invited you in and left you alone. there’s something you can use here. _

patton shakes his head, like he’s trying to get water out of his ears. but it’s a bit too late; here are all the people virgil loves, sitting on his dresser, all of whom he’s at least  _ seen _ relatively recently. and of all the people patton loves—other than logan—he doesn’t have much else beyond bittersweet memories, and voices in his ear, and basically nothing else.

the rush of homesickness hits him so hard it feels like he can’t breathe for a few seconds.

god, he misses christopher.

it’s been a week or so since he’s seen him last, which feels a bit ridiculous to be sad over that, but the thing was they used to see each other basically every  _ day— _ they’d always gone to the same school, so they’d see each other at recess, when they were little, or at each other’s lockers, as they got older. 

patton chews at his lip and fixes his eyes on the ceiling.  _ darn it. _ he can’t cry again. he  _ cannot _ cry again. he needs to redirect his brain.

but it’s too late. 

christopher’s whiskey-brown eyes, all warm when the sun hits them just right. eating biscuits with butter and honey. giggling to each other before making their daring getaways to the balcony. sitting side-by-side, pressed up against each other. when they were little, searching the skies for ufos. when they were older, spying on the neighbors. scotch-flavored kisses and pilfered alcohol. when patton would get giggly, and tipsy, and they’d be handsy, and patton had felt a glimmer of happiness when it felt like everything in the whole world was pressing him down and trying to bury him.

christopher’s easy smile, his warm hands, his tousled hair—

patton swallows his tears the best he can, closing his eyes tightly. no christopher. no christopher on christmas, no christopher on new year’s. no christopher in school, or in summer. no christopher and him, side-by-side, every day. no more of that. that was over now.

because patton had chosen to go off into the unknown. when he left his life, trying to look for something better, he left the best parts of his life, too.

christopher was that best part.

logan fusses, and patton sniffles, turning his attention back to logan. he’s still babyish enough that he can’t really see any resemblances to christopher, or to himself. he isn’t sure if that hurts or helps—logan’s his own person, after all. but he’d really like to hear christopher make some kind of lame joke right now.

“sorry, kiddo,” he says, voice wobbly. “sorry. i know. i’ve gotcha.”

he resumes walking loops around the room. he’d barely even realized he’d stopped. he takes deep breaths, and keeps bouncing logan, which serves to quiet him.

he’s about to lie logan back down in the carrier, maybe curl up in virgil’s bed and try not to cry a little longer, when he hears the creak-and-click of a door opening and closing.

patton freezes, before he timidly opens up the bedroom door to take a peek, and—

virgil’s unwinding the scarf patton made him from around his neck, at the same time attempting to toe off his boots. he pauses and turns, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

“sorry,” virgil manages to say, barely above a whisper. “did i wake you?”

“no,” patton says, and clears his throat when it comes out watery. “no, no, logan was, um. logan was fussing.”

“he okay?”

“yeah, just needed to walk around a bit. he’s good now,” and tilts logan a little closer to the light, so virgil could see that he’s holding him.

virgil surveys him, and then he squints at patton. “ _ you _ okay?”

patton tries for a smile, a little startled that virgil’s bothered to ask at all. “oh, me? yep! fit as a fiddle!”

except virgil frowns, staring at him a little closer, and says, almost a little hurt, “you could just say that you don’t wanna talk about it and i’d respect it, you know? you don’t have to lie to me.”

patton swallows. his voice comes out timid and quiet. “sorry.”

“oh, hey, it—” virgil hesitates, before he says, “well, it’s not, like,  _ great, _ but, y’know. it’s okay.”

there’s a long, awkward pause.

“do you?”

“what?” patton asks, adjusting his grip on logan.

“do you want to,” virgil elaborates. “talk about it, i mean. or not.”

“oh,” patton says. “um. i mean, it just—i dunno.”

virgil dips his head in a nod, and resumes taking off his winter gear.

“were you outside?” patton asks, and he winces. of  _ course _ he was outside, why else would he be wearing his cold-weather clothes? stupid question.

“oh, yeah,” virgil says. “mom wanted help with something, so.”

“oh,” patton says. “okay.”

virgil looks at him, that same surveying look that makes patton feel a little shy, like virgil’s trying to look at him hard enough to read his mind. but instead of saying anything earth-shattering, he just says, “you want some more hot cocoa or something?”

“uh,” patton says. “okay, sure. that sounds nice. i’m gonna lay down logan.”

“all right, cool,” virgil says, and shuffles off toward his kitchen. patton scoots back into virgil’s room, and moves to lay logan down, holding his breath.

no crying.

_ nice. _

so then he wraps himself up in one of virgil’s blankets, and creeps quietly back out of the room, sitting down on the couch. he listens to virgil clank and rattle around in the kitchen, the rush of milk hitting a metal pot, some shuffling of supplies, the clanking of a spoon stirring, the click of a stove turning on. 

it seems like it doesn’t take that long, but it’s long enough that patton feels like he’s pulled himself together, a little, despite the ache in his chest. 

virgil comes out of the kitchen and hands patton a navy blue mug, before he settles on the opposite side of the couch, wrapping his hands around his own black mug.

“has logan been up much?” virgil says. “because you can bring him out here if you, y’know. if you need more sleep. i could—”

“no, no,” patton says. “no, it—i mean, the nap earlier’s really helped, but i’ve been, um. i’ve been sleeping.”

“okay,” virgil says. “good. it kind of just occurred to me that i might be keeping you up, and—”

“no,” patton says. “i’m good. my sleep schedule’s ruined anyway.”

virgil’s eyes narrow, and he says, “well. still.”

“it’s nice of you to offer, but it’s okay, really,” patton says, and blows a breath across the top of the cocoa, before he inhales the scent—rich, chocolatey—and adjusts his grip on the still-too-warm mug. 

virgil clears his throat, and says, awkwardly, “is it… um. the same stuff you were upset about before?”

“oh,” patton says. “um.”

“‘cause again, if you don’t wanna talk about it, that’s okay, but—”

“it,” patton says. “it’s okay. um. kind of.”

he fiddles with the mug, looking down at the cocoa. it’s easier to look at it and not directly into virgil’s eyes.

“is it stupid to be homesick?” he asks in a tiny voice.

“no,” virgil says immediately. 

“okay,” patton says, and there must be a note of skepticism in his voice, because virgil says, “it’s not. okay? it’s not stupid. it’s how you feel. that’s real, and  _ not _ stupid.  _ you _ aren’t stupid.”

patton runs a thumb over the rim of his mug and, instead of saying anything in response to that, he admits, voice clogging right back up again, “i miss christopher.”

“oh,” virgil says, then, “patton, that—that isn’t stupid at all. he’s your—” virgil hesitates, just awkward enough that it’s clear doesn’t really know what relationship to categorize him and christopher as, before he plows on, “he’s important to you.”

patton sniffles, and runs a hand under his eyes, mostly out of caution to  _ not cry again, _ virgil has seen him cry  _ enough, _ and says, “yeah, he is. he’s my—”

patton clears his throat, before he continues, “he’s my best friend. he was almost—” and he clams up.

“almost?” virgil prompts gently, and patton lets out a laugh that’s closer to a sob.

“i mean, it—it wasn’t a  _ secret _ that it was mostly because our parents wanted him to, but he—he tried to propose to me. ‘cause of logan.”

“oh,” virgil says, clearly a little surprised. 

“i said no,” patton says quietly. “i… i mean, he was my—i love him. y’know? if it was any other reason, any other way, i think… i think i would have said yes. but.”

“but,” virgil prompts, and patton takes a gulp of hot cocoa to give himself a moment’s pause. it nearly scalds his mouth. he’s almost a little happy about it—it gives him a physical ache for him to focus on, instead of an emotional one.

“it just… it was so clearly because he thought we  _ had _ to,” patton says. “i mean. we were in the hospital, and he was meeting logan for the first time—”

“while you were in labor?” virgil says, a little appalled. which, fair. patton was focused on a lot when he was in labor, he’d have been pretty peeved if christopher had come knocking asking about marriage during all that.

“oh,” patton says. “um, no. christopher couldn’t make it, when i was in labor. he came by the next afternoon.”

virgil frowns, but nods a little, like he’s signaling that he’s still listening.

“it was the… the little window room? where you can see all the babies in those little plastic cribs,” patton says. “and we were looking in, staring at logan, and he said,  _ he’s a cute baby, _ and i said,  _ he’s perfect, _ and he just said,  _ i guess we should get married. _ just like that.  _ i guess we should get married,” _ he mimicks christopher’s uncertain tone.

virgil frowns harder, but this time, patton nods.

“ _ right,” _ patton says. “and, i mean, i just—i mean, i love him. i really do. but proposals… that’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing, right? proposals are supposed to be more than a desperate end to our parents’ bickering and all their expectations. it should be planned. it should be  _ magical.” _

virgil nods.

“it should be—it should be  _ more,” _ patton says. “there should be music playing and romantic lighting and a subtle buildup to the popping of the questions. there should be a—a  _ thousand _ yellow daisies, and candles, and—and  _ more _ than just an  _ oh, i  _ **_guess._ ** ”

“yeah,” virgil says. 

“but i,” patton says, and sighs, taking another gulp of cocoa. “i mean, i know that if i’d said yes, i’d still be stuck there, and unhappy, and worried about all the same things that i was worried about that led to me running away, but—”

“but you still miss him.”

“yeah,” patton says, and sighs. “ _ yeah.” _

“for the record,” virgil says. “i think you’re—i think you’re right.”

patton blinks at him.

“like,” virgil says, “you shouldn’t marry someone just ‘cause your parents want you to. if you really love him—”

“i do.”

“—yeah,” virgil says. “so. if you really love him. if he’s really right for you. it’ll make sense eventually. and you guys’ll get married for you. not for anyone else. not for your parents, or because the world thinks you have to, or because people think that you have to be married to have a kid. you guys’ll come back together for  _ you guys. _ that’s the way it should be. okay?”

“okay.”

“plus, like, you’re sixteen,” virgil says. “you’re literally, like, a child groom. child spouse? whatever. the point is, you’re a kid. you have a lot of time to figure out if you wanna be with christopher or not, or if you wanna get married to him or not, or if you want to be with anyone at all. you have time.”

“i guess,” patton says.

“i  _ know,” _ virgil says. “like, i’m twenty-three. i’ve got six more years of life experience than you, roughly. the things i thought i’d do at sixteen are way different. you’re going to look back on yourself in those six years and be like  _ i’m glad i waited, _ okay? your brain’s still growing and all that.”

“isn’t yours, too?”

“yeah, exactly,” virgil says. “my  _ point. _ both still growing up. you’ve got way more than enough on your plate right now. you’ve got a baby, and a job, you shouldn’t have to worry about a—a wedding, or whatever.”

“that is  _ very _ true,” patton says wearily, and so they both sit and sip their cocoa for a while.

“virge?”

“yeah?” he says.

“thanks for all this,” patton says. “i mean—really.”

“anytime,” virgil says. “you done?”

patton hands over the mug, and virgil takes it, standing. patton, belatedly, stands too.

“you should get some more sleep,” he says. “but if you can’t, you can, y’know. we can hang out and do whatever you want, yeah?”

“okay,” patton says.

he shuffles into virgil’s bedroom. 

“pat?”

“yeah?” patton says, turning back to face him.

virgil smiles at him uncertainly, and makes a gesture with the mugs he’s holding.

“seriously,” virgil says. “if it’s, y’know. true love or whatever. it’ll happen eventually. you’ll get your thousand yellow daisies. yeah?”

the corner of patton’s mouth quirks up.

“thanks, v.”

“yeah, well,” virgil says. “get some sleep, okay?”

patton gets into virgil’s room. he closes the door behind him, he falls into a bed that smells like unfamiliar laundry detergent, and falls into the deepest sleep he’s had in a long time.

* * *

her children are safely asleep and, for the twenty-ninth year running, it leaves her and her husband awake last.

“we don’t have any major christmas surprises to lay out this year, do we?” mark murmurs.

they’re sitting on the bed, the pair of them holding styrofoam cups in their hands, having one last cup of tea before they turn in for the night. meredith’s tucked her legs up underneath her; mark has his legs crossed, already dressed in his pajamas. they’re particularly paying attention to their volume, though freddie’s the heaviest sleeper of their children; meredith could probably start hollering and freddie would only barely stir. but there she is, still sleeping, and so their voices are quiet.

“no,” meredith murmurs. “no surprises. well, no surprises beyond what we’ve already done.”

mark acknowledges this with a quiet chuckle, and finishes up the last of his tea. meredith pats him on the knee.

“i might run down to the pool house to pick up patton’s clothes,” meredith says. “knowing us, we’ll probably be running late in the morning.”

“all right,” mark says, and leans to give her a peck. “would you like company?”

“you’re already in your flannel, you’d freeze,” she teases. “i’ll be alright. get some sleep.”

mark nods, collects their trash, and moves to throw it away and brush his teeth as meredith shrugs on her coat, pushes her feet into her boots, and leaves their room, leaves the inn.

the inn’s grounds are beautiful, even in the dead of night, even in the dead of winter. the near-dead grass crunched under her feet and she examined the bushes, devoid of any blooms, the trees, stripped bare, the artful landscaping. all of it tinged silver in the moonlight.

beautiful, even in its quiet. like the rest of sideshire.

she’s missed it terribly.

she descends to the poolhouse, attempting to shake off her malaise. it’s small and unassuming—barely more than a shed, meant mostly to store things, to double as a potting shed. it’s meant to be overlooked, but now that she’s staring at it, it seems a rather sorry little room, not even qualified to be called a  _ house _ . she opens the door.

it’s just as pitiable on the inside as it is on the outside.

the couch that must have been patton’s bed has been pushed aside, to make room for the mattress that meredith had damaged; there are laundry baskets piled full of clothes, boxes of baby toys and books and blankets, a storage cart repurposed to be a changing station, a crib moved close to the bed.

the whole room is dark and dingy—there are still abandoned potting sheds scattered about the room, pool supplies shoved into corners. it looks like patton’s carried everything he owned into the room only to drop it, and he’d been so exhausted that he hadn’t been able to tidy it up.

she doesn’t blame the poor boy at all. she feels the sympathy rise in her heart, and is abundantly grateful that she and mark had decided to get as many gifts for patton as they could think of, plus a few more. 

maybe, she thinks, there could be some anonymous deliveries of gift cards to get some supplies. make this place a bit homier.

but she spies the box with a woolly sleeve peeking out of it, and so she crosses the room to open up the box. 

_ which one would he like? _ she wonders.  _ gray, yellow, blue, green, white, black? _

she hesitates, before she reaches for the blue one. may as well go all-in on the color-matching scheme, here.

she’s folding up the sweaters she’d examined when the door swings open, and meredith freezes where she is, staring at the person in the doorway, who’s frozen up, too.

meredith clears her throat, and lifts the blue sweater. “he asked me to bring a change of clothes tomorrow.”

raf nods, and then meredith sees the  _ wagon _ he’s toting, piled high with wrapped boxes and gift bags. “gifts from everyone.”

she smiles. “good. we won’t be the only ones spoiling him.”

raf smiles wider, and she rises to her feet, gesturing. “can i help—?”

“ah, i’ve got help on the way,” raf says, and meredith’s about to ask who until in comes another person, toting  _ another _ wagon.

“hi, cara,” meredith says, amused.

“oh!” cara says. “hi, mrs. danes. um—”

“gifts for patton?”

“this load is for the baby, actually,” cara says sheepishly, and meredith laughs.

“well, far be it from me to stop you,” meredith says, folding the sweater over her arm. “you’re sure the both of you don’t need a hand?”

“well,” cara says, and glances over at raf.

“we’ve all got a load of furniture that people aren’t using or just needed to donate,” raf says. “because. well. look at this place.”

it  _ is _ pretty pitiful. the only furniture that seems like it could really be used for people is a broken rocking chair, the bed, the crib, and a potting bench that looks like it’s been repurposed into a changing table. no dresser, no table, no…  _ anything, _ really.

“and some paint,” cara adds, “but we figured we could leave some paint chips and the note from hector saying that he’ll be out to paint it whatever color he wants, not just choose it for him.”

“how about i help organize the presents, then?” meredith suggests.

“oh, you don’t have to—”

“i insist,” meredith says firmly. “we’re all trying to make sure they have a good christmas.”

“well,” raf says. “if you insist.”

and so it begins, a crew of the three of them; cara’s taping paint chips to the walls, along with hector’s note; raf totes in a dresser, a nightstand, a few baskets that are filled up with yarn; meredith arranges the presents, and notices that none of them have notes.

when she asks, cara and raf exchange a glance.

“he’s a bit… stubborn, when it comes to presents and gifts and that kind of thing,” cara says.

“pauline slipped him some extra money and he spent a week trying to get her to take it back,” raf says.

“ah,” meredith says.

“ _ but,” _ cara says, “if you convince him it’s for logan, or it would really be more of a convenience for him to take whatever you’ve got—”

“then he’ll take it,” meredith surmises, starting to understand. “so, if we act apologetic in the morning and keep saying that we would have felt terrible  _ not _ getting anything, and all of this is so last minute—”

“he’ll probably take it,” raf says. “it’s a manners thing, i think.”

“he is very polite,” meredith murmurs.

“that he is,” cara says.

they continue to work in companionable silence, meredith stacking patton and logan’s presents in a circle, like patton had done with the presents in the diner.

she hopes that he’ll take them. she hopes that he’ll love them.

he really  _ does _ deserve to be spoiled at christmas after the week/month/year he’s had.


	6. chapter six

for the second time in as many days, patton wakes up on his own, not because of logan crying.

it’s weirdly disorienting.

patton sits up, rubbing his eyes. even without his glasses, he can see that the bedroom door’s ajar, and the soft murmur of talking.

“—interesting take, interesting take. you ever thought about telling your dad all this?”

a rush of baby noises before virgil even finishes his sentence, and patton smiles, reaching for his glasses.

after ensuring he’s rolled up virgil’s hilariously massive sweatpants, to make sure he won’t trip, he shuffles to the door, poking out his head, enough to see virgil cradling logan with one arm and putting dough in a pan with another.

logan made another few sounds that might have been passable syllables.

“yeah, i figured,” virgil says. “seriously, though, i get your critiques of capitalism, trust me, i follow you, but i think the capitalism’s part of the fun of it. i mean, granted, you aren’t really old enough to appreciate presents yet, it’s part of the whole object permanence thing, you’ll love it, it’s a kick.” 

more babbling.

“huh, impressive,” virgil comments. “i’m surprised by the well-researched views you’ve got on this whole thing. you might wanna write a thesis on that part about material exchange and consumption having adverse effects on the moral character of society, i think you’re really onto somethin’ there.”

“how much of me not understanding what you’re saying is because i need caffeine?” patton says, lifting his glasses up so he can rub at his eyes with his fist. “please say all of it.”

“sure, all of it,” virgil says. “plus, i’m pretty sure the baby’s outsmarting me.”

“yeah, he has a habit of doing that, being nearly two months old and all,” patton says. “logan okay? was he crying?”

“nah, just, y’know,” virgil says. “woke up and heard him getting a little chatty, so i figured i’d keep the little guy company while i was prepping the cinnamon rolls, so he wouldn’t cry and wake you up. that okay?”

“yeah, that’s fine,” patton says. “i should take him before he drools on the dough, though.”

“probably a good idea,” virgil says, and he hands over logan. patton quickly scoops him up in his arms as logan makes a noise of protest. 

“aw, s’okay,” patton murmurs, shifting him, and logan settles. “can’t believe that you let me wake up on my own again.”

“christmas miracle?” virgil suggests, and patton blinks.

“what?” virgil says.

“it’s christmas,” patton realizes. “oh, my gosh, it’s  _ christmas.” _

“yeah?”

“it’s christmas morning,” patton realizes, looking down at logan’s face. “oh, my goodness,  _ logan! _ it’s your first christmas!”

logan considers this, before he offers a few choice noises, and patton laughs, feeling giddy.

“christmas, logan!  _ christmas! _ oh, you’re gonna  _ love _ christmas, there’s the presents and the  _ food _ and spending time with—” patton falters, before he forces himself to plow on, “ _ everyone! _ it’s  _ christmas _ !”

logan’s apparently worn out verbally, so patton just goes for a kiss on the cheek and shifts his stance, giving virgil his best, winning grin.

“you know what would be a  _ great _ present to kick off christmas morning?”

“your caffeine dependency is horrible,” virgil informs him.

“c’mon,  _ please?” _ patton pleads, and tilts logan toward virgil for optimal visibility. “look at that  _ faaaace.” _

“one day, showing off logan’s little baby face isn’t going to work for getting things,” virgil says.

“which is why i’m maximizing it now,” patton says. “look at this face, that relies on me to care for him, and—”

“shameful,” virgil teases.

“have i said please yet?” patton says. “‘cause i could definitely say it again.”

virgil wars with himself, before he slumps, sighing. “ _ fine. _ i’ll put this in the oven and get a pot started.”

patton cheers, before he settles at the kitchen table. 

“you aren’t having  _ all _ of it,” virgil says.

“uh-huh, sure, ‘course,” patton says happily. “what time’s everyone coming over?”

“pretty soon, actually, i was gonna come in and wake you if you didn’t, y’know, wake up,” virgil says. “my parents are gonna be here first, i think.”

patton nods, absorbing this, before logan starts fussing much more audibly and patton’s distracted enough to get back on his feet and walk, bouncing logan in hopes of calming him; it’s the most fail-safe option, he’s discovered, to keep walking and moving with logan. for whatever reason, logan doesn’t really like being  _ still. _ he guesses if he couldn’t really move himself around he probably wouldn’t like being stuck in the same place staring at the same things either, so he can’t really blame him. 

patton paces around the kitchen, murmuring soothingly to logan and patting his back. the coffee machine is running and the scent of cocoa and coffee is starting to permeate the air; virgil is making sure all the cinnamon rolls are in place before he sticks them in the oven; the sun is shining weakly through the window, and it’s  _ christmas. _

patton almost can’t believe it.  _ christmas. _ on one hand, it was christmas  _ already, _ but on the other—it was  _ finally _ christmas. this year had been the longest of his life. he has a feeling seventeen’s going to be a lot less chaotic than sixteen.

but then, he  _ is _ walking a crying baby around someone who had been a stranger’s kitchen, and emancipation papers to file, and a job at the inn, and a town full of some of the kindest and weirdest people he’s ever met. and if the past year has taught him anything, it’s that all of his life plans are pitched out the window, so maybe he shouldn’t really theorize.

instead, he focuses on logan. who seems to be quieting down with the circles patton is walking around the kitchen, patting logan lightly on the back all the time and bouncing slightly every couple steps. so instead he focuses on the sensory things; the smells of coffee and chocolate and cinnamon, the light of the sun, virgil poking around his fridge and checking timers and, at long last, pouring him a mug of hot cocoa/coffee.

he holds out the mug for patton to snatch on his way by, and he says a cheery “thank you!” and downs the biggest mouthful he can manage as quickly as he can, murmuring soothing words to logan the whole way.

not long after that, patton can distantly hear the jangling bell of the diner, and virgil glances toward the door, taking a few steps automatically, before he glances at patton.

“um. d’you wanna—?”

“i’m not really dressed,” patton says awkwardly, sticking out his leg to show off how virgil’s sweatpants are already unrolling. “besides, i gotta, y’know. baby. plus i’ll keep an eye on the food.”

virgil gives him a wary glance.

patton grins a little sheepishly, before he promises, “i’ll give a shout if any timers go off or things start smoking, how about that?”

virgil accepts that with a nod, before continuing to plod his way out of his apartment, down the stairs, to, presumably, see his parents, and patton then rushes over to the coffee pot and pours himself the biggest refill he can get away with.

what? he’s sleep-deprived! he has a newborn! it’s christmas! 

he gulps quite a bit down, too, before logan starts fussing—”don’t tattle on me to virgil!” patton whispers to him—and patton has to resume walking in circles.

he only takes a couple more turns around the kitchen by the time he hears footsteps on the stairs, and greets mr. and mrs. danes with a sunny smile—he hopes it says  _ please forget the breakdown i had last night, i’m fine now. _

“merry christmas!” he says instead.

“merry christmas, patton!” meredith says, equally bright and cheerful, mark echoing her. “i brought your sweater.”

“oh, thank you!” he says, and steps forward to take it automatically, before remembering he’s supporting a baby over his shoulder with one arm and using the other hand to hold caffeine. “um—”

“i can take him,” virgil volunteers. “you should go get dressed.”

“oh!” patton says, “uh, sure.”

and, holding his breath, hoping that logan won’t cry, he sets the mug on the table and slowly initiates the passing of the baby, and—

nope, logan immediately starts wailing louder. patton automatically reaches to take him back.

“i can keep walking with him,” virgil volunteers, “you can go get dressed.”

he isn’t really sure how to phrase  _ walking away from my baby while he is crying for me is violating every instinct i have, _ but logan’s tiny arms seem to reach for him and that pretty much immediately seals the deal, so patton goes ahead and takes him back. logan quiets, just a bit, sniffling in patton’s ear, and patton grimaces apologetically at virgil.

“sorry, i just—”

“he’s a baby,” virgil says with a slightly awkward shrug. “he wants his dad, it’s fine. we can try again when he’s calmed down a bit.”

patton nods, and meredith smiles at him, just a bit, before setting his sweater on the kitchen table.

“right here, when you want it,” she says, before she turns to virgil. “how are things going?”

“ingredients are mostly downstairs,” virgil says. “i’m making the cinnamon rolls now, though.”

“i can smell them,” mark says, punctuating his statement with a big sniff. “anything we can do to help?”

“i’ll just,” patton says, “um,” and steps back into the living room, far away from the kitchen and anything he could possibly do to ruin the food.

and also to have more room to walk with logan. that too.

it takes that batch of cinnamon rolls coming out of the oven and another batch going in and being nearly done for logan to quiet completely, and patton slowly inches his way back into the kitchen.

“ready?” virgil asks, turning.

“yeah, thank you,” patton says gratefully, and initiates the passing process again, and this time, logan takes it much better, settling in virgil’s arms with something like a coo.

“hey there,” virgil murmurs, grinning at the baby. “there we go, i know, i need some time to calm down too, sometimes,” and then he redirects his stare at patton, the smile still clinging to the corners of his mouth. “go ahead, take all the time you need. there are clean towels under the sink if you wanna shower or anything.”

patton hesitates. that  _ does _ sound  _ really _ tempting. there’s a clawfoot bathtub that had been dumped in the poolhouse, and that’s what he usually uses to bathe, even though the temperature can barely get past lukewarm no matter how high he turns the “warm” faucet. he usually just takes the quickest bath he can manage, usually finishing it off before the bathtub can even fill halfway. maria’s offered him the use of one of the showers in the inn, the same way she’s been offering him a room, but he just kind of feels weird about bathing at work. a hot shower sounds like  _ heaven. _

“you’ll shout if he needs me?”

“i’ll shout if he needs you,” virgil promises.

patton grins, before he reaches for his abandoned mug and chugs down the rest of his cold hot cocoa/coffee, saying “thanks!” before he snatches the sweater off the table and heads straight for virgil’s room, practically  _ giddy. _

funny how much things he’d taken for granted back at his parents’ are such a huge deal to him now; sleeping in a bed, taking a shower, an afternoon watching tv or taking a nap, having money to burn with no worries about budgeting. he’d never had to think about those things as luxuries before.

weird. strange.

patton would think more about it if he wasn’t excitedly turning the water in virgil’s shower as hot as it’ll go.

it nearly burns his fingers, so he, reluctantly, turns the heat down just enough so that it would be on the side of scalding that he could actually  _ stand, _ and he gets in the shower with a smile on his face that’s probably a bit too enthusiastic for something as basic as a hot shower.

patton uses the washcloth he’d taken from virgil’s stash of clean towels and scrubs himself until he’s pink, a combination of the heat and the non-scented body wash that virgil has in his shower; he rubs shampoo into his hair, scratching and digging his fingers into his scalp; at one point, he just stands with his eyes closed in the shower, savoring the water pressure and the heat and the clean scent of the steam and the way his muscles relax and loosen.

he eventually shuts off the shower, reminded of his son and the cinnamon rolls and caffeine and general christmas cheer that are probably waiting for him, and steps out of the shower to get dressed. he towels his curls dry and combs his fingers through them (he should know by now that they’re basically uncontrollable.) he brushes his teeth with the spare toothbrush he’d used the night before, getting all minty-mouthed and fresh. he even uses a bit of the lotion virgil has, rubbing it on his hands and the dry spots on his elbows and ankles.

he gets dressed. he polishes his glasses on his t-shirt before he pushes them onto his nose, getting rid of the last of the steam that clings to them, and wipes clear a little path in the mirror, too, taking away the last of the fuzziness that was obscuring him before.

he stares at himself in the mirror; bags under his eyes decreased a little bit, hair a bit of a mess but when wasn’t it, really, sweater big enough that it obscures his chest but doesn’t drown him in the fabric. worn-in, comfortable jeans.

he feels brand-new.

* * *

virgil squints at the coffee pot. it’s lower. he  _ knows _ it’s lower. and yet—

“what do you mean?” patton says, blinking at him all fake-innocent, holding logan in one arm and using the other to hold his third cinnamon roll in one hand.

“you snuck a refill.”

“i have no idea what you’re talking about,” patton says, widening his eyes to make them seem doe-like and innocent.

“you’re going to get an ulcer one day,” virgil decides, pouring a mug for his mom, which she accepts with a poorly-hidden smile at this exchange.

“if you say so,” patton demurs, and looks down at logan. “don’t you think virgil is being silly, lo? isn’t he so silly?”

“—and you won’t be able to say anything as i stand over your hospital bed and say  _ i told you so.” _

“if you say so,” patton repeats, except this time is  _ distinctly _ more sing-songy, and virgil narrows his eyes at him even as patton pops the rest of the cinnamon roll into his mouth.

“hark!” mark quips, from where he’s stationed at the kitchen window. “our children approach.”

“that’s our cue!” meredith says cheerfully, standing up. “gotta make sure none of you take a peek to see if santa’s come yet.”

“mom,” virgil begins, trying not to sigh, because  _ seriously, _ it’s been at  _ least _ a decade and a half since any of them have believed in santa.

but patton’s making a dramatically excited face at logan, saying, “santa, logan! yay santa! can you say  _ santa?” _ despite the fact that virgil knows that  _ patton _ knows that logan probably won’t be talking for another year, give or take.

and so virgil’s parents depart, to guard the presents and make sure that “santa” has brought things from the north pole, despite the fact that the only one of them who could probably be young enough to believe in santa is still working on important things like object permanence, and rolling onto his stomach on his own, and, like, laughing.

patton looks up at him, smiling. “do you think you’re gonna get what you want for christmas?”

“i barely have any idea what i  _ wanted _ for christmas,” virgil says honestly. “books, probably. cooking stuff. maybe some stuff for my apartment, since it’s pretty, y’know.”

“bachelor pad-y,” patton suggests, and virgil snorts.

“stuff-inherited-from-family-mostly, yeah,” he admits. it’s probably obvious with the mismatched furniture, the old couch and bed and coffee table. “thrift store, too.”

patton nods, absorbing this, before he says, “oh,  _ shoot!” _

“what?” virgil asks, but patton’s brow is already creased in concern, worrying his lip.

“i forgot to ask your mom to get your christmas present from my room!”

_ you got me a present? _ virgil nearly asks, barely noticing the jangling of the bell downstairs and the beginnings of conversation between his parents and his siblings, before he realizes they’d probably be repeating the conversation they had on his birthday, before he catches on and says, “oh, hey, patton, it’s okay, you can give it to me later.”

“i just— _ shoot,” _ patton repeats, frowning harder. “i mean, it-it’s not much, but—”

“it’s great,” virgil says. “i’m sure it is, but, really. you can get it to me later, i’m not gonna be mad or anything.”

“you’ve been so nice to me and i just  _ forgot,” _ patton says.

“it happens,” virgil says. “i mean—think about it this way. you’ve already given me a gift within the past week, and you’re gonna give me another one… whenever you come by the diner next. you’re good, you’re covered.”

patton hesitates.

“we can blame logan, if you want,” virgil offers, mostly joking, and leans so he can stare logan in the face. “i can’t believe you haven’t gotten a job yet just to get me presents, you two-month-old baby.”

patton laughs, probably just to be nice, before he stares even more sheepishly at virgil. “i—still. sorry.”

“it’s okay,” virgil says. “accidents happen.”

“virgil!” he hears freddie shout. “bring me the cinnamon rolls, i want a billion of them!”

virgil rolls his eyes, before he gets to his feet. “duty calls.”

“i’m not far behind her,” patton says, leaning to snatch another cinnamon roll before virgil picks up the plate and gestures.

“shall we?”

patton goes to grab logan’s diaper bag, before he falls into step behind him and they both plod down the stairs.

freddie nets virgil in a hug, which, virgil notes, and seemingly patton does too with a poorly-stifled snort, is a blatant excuse to snatch the entire pan of cinnamon rolls away from virgil, immediately shoving one into her mouth whole.

“winifred jane danes!” mark scolds, even in the midst of a laugh himself. “stop that, you’ll choke!”

freddie says something—probably some kind of quip or comeback—but it’s stifled by the food, and virgil takes the opportunity to snatch the cinnamon rolls back, dropping them on a table, about to start lecturing her, before—

“oh, let’s not,” meredith says merrily. “go on, kids, go on, dig in, grab some rolls! the faster you eat, the faster we can open presents!”

“i can’t believe you’re undermining my parenting like this,” mark says, jokingly pious, over the sound of the four other danes siblings (and patton, doubling back for even more) and virgil shuffles out of the way—the benefit of being the sibling who makes the meals means he gets first pick—which means he’s perfectly situated to watch everyone  _ else _ get their fill.

it also means he’s perfectly situated to watch patton turn, maybe to talk to him or his parents, before he falters at the sight of the christmas tree, the color wheel of presents.

including the two new slivers of bags and boxes, wrapped prettily in sky blue and indigo.

patton stares for a few seconds. his brow furrows, confused. and then, almost like he doesn’t mean to, he reaches his hand to touch the sky blue material of his sweater, bunching it in his hand, even as his brow furrows more and more.

virgil, sensing another crying session in making, feels his stomach plummet and quickly takes a few steps closer; his mom mirrors him, crowding in on his other side.

“i,” patton says. his voice quavers, and he takes in a shaky, gulping breath. “did you…?”

“it’s christmas,” virgil says gruffly. “you didn’t  _ really _ think we wouldn’t get you anything for christmas, would you?”

“but i,” patton says, and his face crumples as he looks to virgil’s mom. “but i didn’t  _ get you anything.” _

his mother looks startled at this, just for a moment, before she puts a hand on his shoulder.

“you’ve given us your presence,” she says, voice quiet, so that virgil’s breakfasting siblings won’t overhear. “and time with a relatively newborn baby.”

patton makes an alarmingly creaky noise, which means that  _ logan _ makes an alarmingly creaky noise, sensing that something’s wrong, and virgil panics, just a bit, because hearing logan scream and knowing he can’t  _ do anything about it _ is possibly one of the worst feelings in the world.

“you’re  _ sixteen,” _ virgil says roughly. “you’re sixteen. okay? you’ve had a rough year. you’re a good kid. you deserve christmas presents without any strings attached.”

patton inhales deeply and presses his fingers under his eyes, like the pressure will be enough to stop the tears. 

“but i—i couldn’t even remember to bring  _ your _ present—”

“and that’s okay,” virgil says firmly. “you’ll bring it next time you come to the diner, that’s fine.”

“—i didn’t even get  _ you _ anything,” patton says to his mom, watery. “and you’ve been so  _ kind _ to me, i—”

“that’s okay,” meredith says. “hey, that’s okay. your presence is enough, just like i said.”

“but—”

“it is  _ enough,” _ meredith says quietly. “look. giving presents makes you feel good, right?”

patton nods, curly hair still damp around the edges flopping into his eyes.

“ _ so,” _ meredith says. “you’re letting  _ us _ get that feeling. that’s a nice present, wouldn’t you say?”

patton hesitates, clearly warring with himself, but then—

“and you’ll let us hold the baby, as long as he doesn’t cry? we’re all vaccinated and i want my children to practice for—”

“ _ no grandkid talk,” _ virgil grumbles, which makes patton sniffle and smile.

“well…. okay,” he says, before he says, “i’m going to send you something for your birthday, though.”

“well, i’ll have to do that too!” meredith says cheerfully. “when’s yours?”

“january 15.”

“no way,” meredith says.

“what?”

“mine’s january 16!”

and, almost as suddenly as it started, patton’s closeness to tears has abated as he and meredith discuss the various merits and drawbacks of a january birthday, patton’s well-trained ability to small talk and his genuine, enthusiastic interest in getting to know people shining through, distracting him, and virgil breathes a soft sigh of relief. 

no more crying on christmas. patton shouldn’t have to feel like crying on christmas. it’s  _ christmas. _

so virgil turns, and moves to get another cinnamon roll, before—

“what was all that?”

virgil scowls at silas, almost out of habit, before he takes his chosen cinnamon roll off the tray.

_maybe_ it was the cinnamon roll that silas’ hand was closest to, and _maybe_ silas scowls right back, but hey, virgil _made_ _it,_ he gets first dibs.

“patton was a bit emotional about christmas presents when he didn’t get anyone but me anything,” virgil says curtly.

silas hums.

“silas, i  _ swear—” _

“hey, if  _ you _ don’t get snappy with me, i won’t be snappy with you,” silas says, putting up his free hand. “christmas is the time of truces and all that.”

virgil stares at him for a few more seconds, evaluating the validity of this, before he allows a jerky nod and turns away from him.

just in time to see patton unearth logan from his chest carrier, and to see his mother coo down at his sleepy face.

“give him a couple seconds, he just needs to wake up a little so he doesn’t panic when we pass him over,” patton murmurs, and his mother laughs, staring down at the baby with soft eyes.

god. his mom  _ really _ wants grandbabies.

virgil thinks, as he stares at patton and his mom, smiling together down at logan, that patton and his son are probably a pretty good interim patch for that particular desire.

thank god, he thinks. it’s not like  _ he’s _ about to have a kid anytime soon.

“okay, who’s santa this year?”

“it was us last year, i think,” essie says, patting annabelle’s knee. “so that means…?”

“i gave up my turn,” silas says, because silas can kind of be a grinch, “so—”

“me!” freddie sings, launching herself from the booth. “okay, light blue patton, dark blue for the baby?”

“that’s the one,” mark says cheerfully, who is now taking  _ his _ turn holding the baby, and he looks absolutely delighted that logan was comfortable enough to fall back asleep in his arms.

“and everyone else’s is normal,” freddie says, before gathering an armful of purple boxes and bags and cheerfully dumping them at virgil’s feet.

“thanks, fred,” he says dryly. “sure hope there wasn’t anything breakable in there.”

freddie ignores him. virgil has the feeling that she’d be flipping him off behind her back if their mother wasn’t sitting right next to him.

“so, um,” patton says uncertainly, from where he’s hovering right next to virgil’s dad in case of Random Baby Meltdown Time, “how do you guys usually do this?”

“pass them out in order, tear them open in chaos,” annabelle informs him. 

“there is no order,” essie says at the same time, and patton nods, absorbing this.

“right,” he says, “okay,” and accepts a load of indigo presents with a  _ thank you _ to freddie and a glance at logan, just to check that he’s still okay; virgil’s dad transfers logan to his carrier, so he doesn’t get jostled during the whole gift-opening session.

freddie continues passing out presents as quickly (and carelessly) as she can—gold for mom, silver for dad, green for wyatt, red for essie, pink for annabelle, black for silas, yellow for freddie, purple for virgil—and as soon as the last present is placed in the pile by patton’s feet, freddie immediately tears into her nearest present with a vicious, vociferous glee.

and the rest of them are  _ off. _

with five kids (and, now, five kids, a fiancée, and a friend with a baby) it had always taken  _ way _ too long to go in order, one-by-one, and so it became the norm that as soon as whoever was santa that year opened their first present, the rest of them had free reign to open their presents as quickly or as slowly as they would like.

it would probably shock no one that most danes’ favored  _ quickly. _

soon, the diner was overrun with the sound of ripping wrapping paper and crumpling tissue paper and exclamations of “thanks!” whenever they saw what they got, and who they got it from, and leaning around people to offer hugs or more specific comments.

virgil looks up in the midst of ripping some shiny purple wrapping paper off a box, to see patton, frozen, with his hands on the first box he’d gingerly picked up, staring at the chaos.

for a second, virgil thinks he might be overwhelmed; they  _ can _ be noisy when they’re all jammed in together like this, with an occasion as exciting as  _ christmas presents, _ and patton hasn’t exactly had an easy past couple of days. or an easy past year, for that matter.

but patton’s eyes dart over to look at virgil’s parents: his mom, in the middle of squeezing freddie into a hug and then giving her a soft, joking punch for the gag gift that freddie must have gotten at some kind of godawful tourist trap, virgil isn’t even really sure what it  _ is _ but whatever it’s  _ supposed _ to be probably shouldn’t be sequined  _ and _ glow-in-the-dark; his dad, pulling free a cookbook from the bag he’d been hurling tissue paper from just seconds earlier.

and then patton  _ beams, _ and tears the wrapping paper off the nearest sky-blue box with a satisfying  _ rrrrrrrriiiiip!!! _

virgil grins down at his own box, and resumes opening his own gifts, that warm, sentimental feeling blooming in his chest that he only  _ really _ gets around christmas.

* * *

later, patton remembers logan’s first christmas mostly in snapshots; golden, precious memories that he’ll cling to for years, the kind of memories he knows will be cherished even before he’s finished living through them.

he eats his weight in cinnamon rolls, and then doubles it in ginger snaps. 

he helps virgil and silas and wyatt cart up virgil’s new furniture; virgil’s particularly protective of the framed  _ nightmare before christmas _ cross-stitch, moving it over seven times (silas counts) before he carts it off to his room to decide where it’ll go later, when all of them are out of the room (“it’s not like any of you are interior designers,” virgil grumbles after this, probably annoyed by their constant recommendations, but  _ really, _ moving it  _ seven times?!) _

he remembers the danes’ immediately clearing the easiest path for him to step into virgil’s room as soon as logan starts crying, and they all seem eager to lend a helping hand if he needs one; especially virgil and his parents, but the other siblings too. which patton appreciates, he really does! it’s just that he doesn’t think logan’s quite ready to learn how to do a baby cartwheel yet, like freddie’s offering.

virgil’s mother gets a new camera that morning from virgil’s father, and spends the rest of the day breaking it in; a lot of those are of logan (“baby’s first christmas!” she says, “you’ll want these for later!” which patton certainly is  _ not _ contesting) but everyone gets their photo taken a lot, too. patton’s already gotten a promise from mrs. danes that she’ll send him a copy of virgil, so heavily dusted with flour that it makes him look like a ghost, after freddie got it in her head to storm into the kitchen and start a food fight when the culinarily-inclined danes siblings were tucked away for far too long, shouting about  _ family time! _

he teaches essie how to finger-knit a braided row that might become a blanket, later, sitting side-by-side on the couch, as freddie and annabelle both try to teach logan how to roll over on virgil’s new, fluffy, gray rug, as logan sits in his carrier and gnaws, slobbering, on his new jupiter teething toy. he’s about two months away from all that, but hey, if they’re dedicated to teaching him, maybe logan’s a quick learner.

virgil teaches him how to  _ know _ when to flip a pancake, and sure, sometimes his pancakes are very pale, and sure, sometimes they’re  _ very _ dark, but hey, at least patton knows how to keep an eye out for the popping air bubbles at the edge of the batter now!

meredith sits with him on the couch, a hand on his shoulder, watching fondly as all of her children bicker over the latest results of their card game and patton’s sitting with a snoozing logan in his arms, and says, “it’ll all go by a lot faster than you could ever guess, you know. cherish it.”

but mostly, patton remembers a lot of laughing, and the fighting being mostly joking in nature and never very serious, and no stilted small talk or muffled gossip or terrible catered food or itchy tulle dresses or ill-fitting suits or the desperate urge to steal a bottle of merlot and sneak out onto the balcony with christopher. he remembers the warmth of his sweater, and the look on each of the danes’ faces when logan seems to consent to being passed around with minimal complaining (except for screaming when silas holds him, but he’s easily enough calmed when patton picks him back up.)

  1. and patton remembers this too.



they’re all sitting in the living room, waiting for the last of their christmas breakfast-for-dinner to cook, and he and the danes’ are all gathered in the living room; patton’s just finished a session of tummy-time with logan, so logan’s cuddled in his arm, eyes hazily lidded, like he’s about to drop off for another nap, but not quite sleeping yet.

the danes’ are all talking about family stories in the past, and patton is hopelessly trying to map out their extensive family tree in his head; virgil’s mom is the youngest of four girls, and virgil’s dad is the youngest of  _ nine, _ so patton has absolutely no chance of keeping uncle marco or great-aunt maud straight in his head, he really doesn’t, unless someone wants to hand him a visual aid or something.

currently, the conversation’s centering around a great-aunt winnie; freddie’s namesake, apparently.

“—never got an ounce of common sense in all her life, but god, the woman was funny,” meredith finishes.

“aw, it passes down to winifreds through the generations,” silas says, and freddie reaches over to smack the back of his head, grinning despite herself.

“shut up, silas.”

“yeah, shut up, silas,” virgil echoes, grinning. “it’s not  _ freddie’s _ fault that our parents cursed her with that name, it’s not like they have a very good track record with  _ naming _ .”

“virgil!” meredith gasps, jokingly offended, which would probably be more effective if all five danes siblings hadn’t sounded off in noisy agreement. patton directs his smile down at logan, lest meredith try to net him to her side, because, well. the names they’d given all their children were  _ nice _ names, of course, it was just… they were certainly all  _ choices. _

“he’s right, mom,” essie agrees, smiling up at her mom apologetically. “i mean, he has the most cause to complain, so—”

except virgil hisses at her, and patton looks over at them curiously.

“you do?”

“he doesn’t  _ know?” _ silas says gleefully.

“i mean, well—” virgil says, fumbling.

“—’cause, i mean,  _ virgil thomas _ isn’t so bad,” patton says, glancing out at the rest of them. “that’s the pattern, right, an, um…  _ unusual _ name first and a real normal one in the middle? uh, like winifred jane, right?”

“okay, see, what i  _ said _ was,” virgil says, clearly scrambling. “i  _ like _ that yours and logan’s middle names are thomas, i wish mine was too, that’s why it was my confirmation name, so—”

“your middle name isn’t thomas?”

“absolutely  _ not,” _ freddie says, absolutely mirthful. “it’s, like, one  _ billion  _ times worse.”

“— _ but,” _ virgil says, “thomas  _ is _ my confirmation name, which is what i told you, and also what i prefer, because what  _ they _ gave me—”

“they’re noble names!” mark says, which would probably be more convincing if he wasn’t fighting his own smile.

“ _ names?” _ patton repeats. “you’ve got two middle names?”

virgil grumbles into his glass, something like  _ look at what you’ve all done, _ and patton looks at him quizzically.

virgil lets out a long, slow sigh. “you have to promise not to laugh,  _ and _ that you won’t tell anyone.”

“i won’t,” patton vows loyally.

“my name,” virgil says, sighs again, and continues, “is virgil tringad luigi danes.”

patton blinks. and then he presses his lips together for a moment, but he can’t help the way the corners of his lips twitch up.

“you said you wouldn’t laugh,” virgil says, offended.

“it’s a hilarious name,” freddie says.

essie, pitying, pats virgil on the shoulder. “it  _ is _ a pretty funny name, virge.”

“luigi,” patton manages to say, when he’s pretty sure he won’t burst into giggles just from opening his mouth. “like. like from—”

“ _ don’t,” _ virgil groans.

“like from mario?!” he says, and presses a hand over his mouth before he  _ really _ starts laughing at virgil.

this very obvious ploy doesn’t work, because virgil turns his disgruntled gaze back to him, before—

“like luigi, my grandfather,” mark corrects, before he smiles, too. “and, yes, also like mario.”

“you hate me,” virgil grumbles to mark and meredith. “i mean, seriously.  _ tringad?” _

“it means  _ fair town!” _ meredith protests. “you couldn’t exactly be virgil  _ sideshire _ luigi, could you?”

“you  _ hate _ me.”

“oh, bunny, of course we do,” meredith says. “that’s why we fed, clothed, and housed you for eighteen years, before eventually passing the family business down to you. i mean, clearly, it sounds like your father and i loathe you.”

“oh,  _ yeah,” _ virgil continues to mutter, “there’s wyatt  _ james _ and esther  _ marie _ and silas  _ matthew _ and winifred  _ jane, _ and then i, virgil  _ tringad luigi—” _

and that’s what tips patton over the edge, the laughter bursting out of him before he can even try to stop it. virgil’s betrayed face almost makes it  _ funnier; _ it’s the kind of laughter patton couldn’t stop even if he’d been trying (and he  _ had _ been trying!) but once it explodes forth, it feels so good and so right that he wouldn’t even  _ try _ to stop, and it’s the best kind of laughter, belly-aching and breathless and making his cheeks hurt, he hasn’t laughed like this since god knows when and that makes it all the better, all the more that he  _ wants _ to laugh, and then—

and then, the most beautiful sound that patton’s ever heard.

_ logan’s _ laughing. a beautiful, bubbly, precious little baby laugh, eyes crinkling up, smiling up at patton,  _ laughing _ with him, and it shocks patton into laughing right along with him, sure that his smile is splitting his face, because his baby is laughing.

“he’s laughing,” patton says in disbelief, and lets out a breathless exhalation, looking up at the rest of the danes’. “logan’s laughing!”

“logan’s laughing!” virgil cheers, any betrayal over patton laughing at his name forgotten, and meredith says, “his first laugh?” as mark says “congratulations!” and patton looks down at logan in his arms, reaching a hand to tickle a little bit at logan’s belly, so blinded by his smile and maybe happy tears that he can only see logan’s smiling, perfect face.

“laugh for your papa, honey!” patton urges, gently tickling his belly. “go on, baby, laugh!”

and logan  _ does, _ and it’s so  _ beautiful, _ so precious, and patton is  _ euphoric, _ letting out a laugh with him that might be a sob, disbelieving and overjoyed as the rest of the danes’ provide a delighted cacophony in the background that logan seems to turn to to listen, before looking up at patton and laughing again. his son’s first laugh, happening in his arms, surrounded by people who support him, and one of his best friends, and—

and it’s the best christmas present he’s ever gotten.

* * *

logan’s tuckered out from his first laugh and his second laugh and the third and fourth and on and on until patton lost count, because each and every danes made their very best attempt to make him laugh, with none as successful as virgil, and patton treasures every single  _ one, _ because his baby.  _ laughing. _

the first outward expression of joy, other than laughing. a huge step toward his own expression as a person. 

it’s perfect.  _ logan’s _ perfect.

patton rubs at his aching cheeks, still smiling, as he slowly steps back from logan napping away in his carrier. 

logan sleeps on, and so eventually patton turns his back on him, approaching the diner’s kitchen.

“anything i can help with?” he asks, even though it doesn’t seem necessary; the danes’ are all a well-oiled machine, all seemingly used to their jobs preparing their massive breakfast-for-dinner.

meredith glances out at the kitchen; virgil flipping pancakes, jostling elbows with silas frying bacon at the same stove; essie checking biscuits set out to cool; freddie and annabelle laughing as they cut fresh fruit; wyatt scrambling eggs; mark flipping waffles out of the iron with professional efficiency.

“how about,” meredith says, clearly struggling to come up with a job that  _ didn’t _ really require cooking that hadn’t already been taken.

“i could set the table?” patton offers, and she smiles at him in relief, clapping him on the shoulder. 

“yes! set the table. um, plates are there, silverware should be—”

“over in the basket,” virgil says, “we moved ‘em,” and meredith nods.

“ma’am, yes ma’am,” patton says, and goes over to gather an armful of plates, a handful of already-napkin-wrapped silverware.

his parents would probably be aghast that he was eating off plastic plates, with durable forks, for  _ christmas dinner. _ patton pushes the thought of his mind, like he has been for the nearly two months he’s been gone, but strangely, it hurts less.

like a bruise that’s starting to heal.

patton can only hope that pattern continues, but he decides to focus on setting down plates and silverware, instead.

he ends up filling pitchers with juice and hot cocoa/coffee and regular coffee and water, too, before the danes’ all come to finish their own jobs and cart out platters and  _ platters _ of food; hashbrowns, eggs, bacon, biscuits, gravy, fruit, pancakes and waffles—it’s a veritable  _ feast, _ and patton’s mouth is watering just looking at it.

virgil pushes a mug in his hands, and patton’s about to thank him until the smell hits his nose.

“this is decaf,” he says, holding it back out for him.

“ _ how,” _ virgil says disbelievingly. “i poured it when you weren’t looking!”

patton grins at him. he could tell him it’s the smell—decaf  _ always _ smells different than fully caffeinated—but he’s having too much fun showing off that he knows it’s decaf before it even touches his lips to consider that, yet.

“i know all,” patton says, making his tone aloof and mystical, so that virgil snorts at him.

“okay, well, you should still drink it.”

“it’s christmas!” patton says, aghast. 

“it’s  _ dinnertime,” _ virgil says.

“i’m not seeing your point,” patton says, and virgil sighs.

“look,” he says. “just… drink the decaf, as a christmas present to me. just the reassurance that  _ i’m _ trying to keep you from tossing and turning all night.”

patton hesitates, staring at him, before he sighs.

“i’m not going to  _ like _ it,” patton grumbles.

“i’d never expect you to,” virgil says, a laugh in his voice. 

all the rest of the danes’ have started filtering in from the kitchen, carting the last of the plates; virgil sees them, and ducks into the kitchen to help. patton deliberates going, too, except annabelle starts chatting with him about logan, his  _ favorite _ topic of conversation, so he’s a bit distracted.

the scent of fresh-baked pastry and apples and cinnamon brings him to a pause, staring at the plate that a familiar pale hand sets down in front of him.

they’re not apple tarts. the ones at his parents’ party are twisted to resemble little roses with perfectly spiced, perfectly baked, perfectly cubed apples in the center, overlaid with an elaborate, perfect lattice. perfect, perfect, perfect; just like everything else is supposed to be, at a sanders party.

these are more like mini apple pies. unassuming and simple—a crust rolled over the top with an  _ x _ cut into the center, the edges clearly pressed down against with a fork. not at all uniform, or particularly picturesque. not perfect.

patton finds himself getting choked up anyway.

“i couldn’t, um,” virgil says, and coughs. “i couldn’t find a recipe for apple tarts, this is the closest i could get, but i hope—”

“i love them,” patton says, cutting him off, and if his voice a bit more watery than usual virgil doesn’t comment on it. “i-i love them. i just— _ thank you.” _

it still doesn’t feel like enough,  _ thank you, _ he means, it doesn’t feel like enough to tell virgil for everything he’s done for patton, for  _ logan. _ it’s so  _ thoughtful, _ and such a sweet gesture, to bring the part of christmas that patton’s been audible about missing that virgil could conceivably bring to patton. and he did.

he gave patton presents, and comfort, and the opportunity to get to know his  _ family, _ and the closest thing he could get to  _ apple tarts.  _ apple tarts, patton’s favorite christmas tradition. right here. in addition to a welcoming, kind family, and  _ presents, _ and providing the impetus for his son’s first  _ laugh— _

it’s not enough. it feels like it might never be enough.

virgil settles in beside him, the rest of the family all sitting down, still laughing and chatting, reaching for platters and starting to pass them up and down the table.

“what are friends for, right?” he says quietly. 

patton tries to swallow down the lump in his throat, and tries to smile at virgil. virgil smiles back at him, soft, and understanding, and patton thinks that maybe he doesn’t really have to say anything at all.

he plucks one of the apple pies. it’s still hot enough that it feels like it’s burning the tips of his fingers as he drops it on his plate. he cuts it, and the scent of apple and cinnamon comes through even clearer. he lifts a heaping forkful to his mouth, blowing out a breath in a futile attempt to cool it, before he eats it, savoring the flavors dancing on his tongue.

it tastes like christmas.

* * *

virgil’s stretched out on the rug, lying on the ground with a hand on his stomach. everyone else has claimed most of the furniture, similarly food-stunned and lazy.

“so i guess people don’t want to make dessert or anything, then?” his mother teases the whole room, only to be met by a chorus of groans that virgil only ever  _ really _ hears on thanksgiving, or christmas, or the random weekends where they’d all decided to try out a variety of new recipes for the diner and gorged themselves on it and all of its subsequent, experimental variations.

everyone is sleepy, and quiet, and content.  _ virgil’s _ content.

essie and annabelle slumped against each other, legs tangled together as their feet are propped up on the same (new) ottoman; silas is on the other cushion of the loveseat next to them, close to nodding off; wyatt and freddie are sitting together on the couch with their parents, deep in a game of go fish; patton’s flopped out on his belly, not far from virgil, along with logan, who’s having some tummy time. some classic christmas music is playing in the background.

it’s been a good christmas, a  _ great _ christmas, even; he’s gotten presents to help make the apartment look a little less barren and a little more homey, patton and logan had a good day, he got to spend a lot of time with his siblings and his parents and his future sister-in-law. and, considering that his dad’s nodding off on the couch right now, it means that christmas is winding down.

there’s always this strange feeling that virgil gets, right before he goes to sleep on a holiday, or after a really good day. sometimes, he feels like he’s so hyperaware of  _ everything _ that could go wrong, that when days turned out as close to perfect as they could—like today—it felt bittersweet, that such a good day had come to such a satisfying closing, but at the same time, thinking about how quickly things were changing, everything that  _ could _ happen, and he’s almost a little afraid, every birthday or christmas or thanksgiving or family weekend, that it’ll be the  _ last _ one like this, the last one where he and silas won’t fight, the last one where they’ll all be together like this, the last time it’ll go  _ well. _

he knows how unlikely he is that that feeling is  _ right, _ but, well. anxiety. it tries to convince him that it’s right  _ all _ the time. and it is, in a way; logan’s never going to be this little again, for a holiday like this. essie and annabelle will get married, and grow out of their honeymoon phase. freddie might be whisked off to paris or cairo or london or tokyo with her intention on running away to the circus. wyatt might drown himself in work and not escape from the operating room. silas might get bitterer, and bitterer, and his parents’ constant reassurances that they’d grow out of whatever rivalry they’ve got going would be wrong.

his parents are getting older, too. there are more gray hairs at his father’s temples than there were when they moved away. and that’s going to keep happening, and soon, it won’t just be gray hairs.

virgil shakes himself, and rolls over, enough to come face-to-face with logan. logan’s enough to jolt him out of that particular line of thought; it’s hard to think about aging and all the scary things that comes with that when he’s staring a baby dead in the face.

“oh, hey,” he says. “‘sup, buddy, you kinda zoomed on over here, or did i just roll real far?”

“you rolled real far,” patton says, amused. “logan’s not due to start crawling until about may or june.”

virgil makes a noise of understanding, before he says, “yeah, probably too much to expect to get  _ two _ major milestones on one day, huh?”

logan babbles at him in agreement, and virgil smiles, offering him a finger to grasp and slobber on.

“yeah, it would,” he murmurs to him. “one’s just fine, though. good job on that. laughing’s awesome, you’ll love it.”

“yeah, he will,” patton says, beaming at logan, lightly rubbing his back before propping his chin on his hand. he had a look on his face; he wasn’t smiling as widely as he had been, when he was talking to logan, and, weirdly, it strikes virgil that he might not be the only one with a case of holiday melancholy.

of  _ course _ he wasn’t, virgil scolds himself a moment later. jesus, if anyone was afforded a case of holiday moodiness, it was  _ patton, _ who had just gone through his first christmas without his parents, knowing full well that he was going to take steps to face a lot more than just  _ christmases _ without them. 

virgil’s so entrenched in this line of thought that it’s almost jolting when his mother says, “well, it’s probably time to head back to the inn.”

“oh!” patton says, surprised, and virgil carefully takes his finger back from logan, who seems to pout at him, but doesn’t start crying, which is really the best he can hope for. he manages to push himself onto his feet.

the goodbye hugs pass by in a rush; it’s not their  _ last _ goodbye hugs—they’re all coming to the diner tomorrow for a goodbye breakfast—so they’re quick, everyone eager to drop into bed and sleep off their food comas. 

“patton, do you want to walk back with us?” his mother asks. “since we’re all walking the same direction.”

“oh, no, that’s okay,” patton says. “i thought i might, um. help virgil pick up a little.”

virgil looks at him a little strangely; they’d washed all the dishes, and really, the only  _ picking up _ that needed to be done was putting pillows back on their proper couches, and throwing away the last of the plastic cups people had been sipping wine and beer out of. nothing really intensive, and, honestly, nothing that couldn’t wait until morning.

“plus, um, i figured i’d make sure logan’s all good before the walk back,” patton says, adjusting logan a little so that virgil’s mom could coo at him—it’s a grade-a diversion tactic, virgil has to admit, just showing off the baby.

_fine,_ it’s _worked_ _on him before,_ he isn’t _heartless,_ it’s a baby, and more than that, it’s _logan._

“all right, well,” she says, floundering.

“it won’t take very long,” patton says, “i just don’t want you to wait very long, or anything.”

“oh, that’s not a problem,” she says briskly. “i can just make sure—here, i’ll pick up in here, you two take the kitchen, we’ll be done. before you know it.”

“okay,” patton says. 

they go into the kitchen. it really  _ is _ just throwing away crumpled napkins and dumping discarded drinks into the sink before sorting it into trash and recycling, but patton seems strangely fidgety, changing the way he’s holding logan about five times.

“you okay?” virgil asks, once that they’ve cleared up everything.

patton clears his throat, adjusting his grip.

“i just,” patton says, and takes a deep breath. “i think i want to call my parents.”

virgil stops in his tracks. “oh,” he says, and he’s sure he sounds a little strangled.

“not, like,” patton says, and lets out the breath. “not the  _ house, _ i don’t think i could handle—um, i think i might leave a message on my dad’s machine at work. no chance of anyone answering, but… but i can still say merry christmas, and tell them about meeting up after the new year.”

“meet up?” virgil repeats, striving to keep his voice neutral.

“i should at least,” he says, and swallows. “i think i should at least tell them about the emancipation thing to their face. right? i’d want someone to tell _ me _ about that, so i just—i don’t want to blindside them, that’s all. i think i’ve done enough of that.”

“you didn’t,” virgil starts, before he stops, and says, “are you sure about this?”

“yeah,” patton says. “yeah, i’m sure.”

“okay,” virgil says. “do you want—i mean. should i go in the other room, or—?”

“no,” patton says, then, “i just—i want you there. we could step onto the balcony maybe?”

virgil nods. 

“it’s just,” patton says. “i—i dunno. it feels… wrong, i guess. to not at least  _ try _ to talk to them. it’s christmas.”

virgil lets out a sigh. because, well. he may  _ hate _ emily and richard sanders, but if it’ll make this kid feel better about the christmas he’s had…

well, who is he to stop his friend from feeling better?


	7. epilogue

after the usual niceties with his secretary, richard steals into his office with a breath that probably shouldn’t seem quite so relieved.

the house had never seemed so empty around a holiday since his father died, when richard was twelve. and even then, there had been his mother. and after, his son, attempting to make pastries that came out lopsided and near-raw, helping the maid decorate, playing christmas music from his room. richard had yelled at him to turn it down, for years and years on end.

as his wife had spent most of her days lying silent in bed when she wasn’t a ghost of her former self attempting to present a normal front at their yearly christmas party, he found his ears straining. like some horrible rock version of a song would come floating from patton’s room, and richard would step into the room to find his son and his grandson back home, never gone, and the whole affair had been a lesson in the style of charles dickens—

but now. now, there was work. the familiar live preserver of work. the president of the company has complimented him on his increased presence around the holidays, to really ensure that work was getting done, but it’s because the familiarities of phone calls and paper work are safe to look at, safe to examine, safe to pursue with his usual bulldog-style tactics.

as richard waits for his computer to boot up, he paces around his desk, ensuring that no dust has accumulated in his mandatory holiday absence. none has—well, for what they pay these janitors for, there better not be—but there is a red light blinking on his desktop phone.

richard frowns, and, after re-reading the label, manages to push the right one, he thinks. 

a rush of sound, like whoever’s calling him is outside and it’s windy, before there’s a crackle.

“uh, hey, dad. merry christmas.”

richard’s knees just about give out—he manages to land in the desk chair, thank goodness.

"logan, honey, can you say _merry christmas?_ can you say _merry christmas_ for grandpa?”

there’s a shuffle, and then a rush of babyish babbling, a blown raspberry, a shrieking giggle, and richard covers his eyes with shaking hands.

_they’re safe. thank god, they’re safe._

patton had said that when he’d first called, but he’d said nothing of where they were, the conditions of the place they were staying, when he was coming _back—_

“well, dad, i think that’s about as close as you’re going to get, with him,” patton says ruefully. “i know it’s probably after the new year by the time you listen to this, but, well, it’s christmas now, um, obviously, but i—i hope that you and mom are having a good christmas party, like usual. i hope you had an apple tart for me.”

emily hadn’t ordered them, richard thinks bleakly. they reminded her too much of patton, who’d eat himself near-sick on those tarts every year. she’d changed the traditional catering menu entirely.

“no apple tarts here, but a friend made me something that was close enough," patton says. 

what _friend?_ emily had exhausted every form of a social book they _had_ trying to get in touch with patton’s friends.

“i’m sorry i’m not there,” patton says, “but i, um. if i’m calculating right, i think you’ll get this in time, but on the morning of that next... thursday? thursday, after new years. i’ll, um, i’ll be at that café mom likes, you know, the one with the thirty-two kinds of pie and the curtains that reminded her of granny’s doilies?”

_the what at the where?_

“kennington’s, that’s it! okay, i’ll be at kennington’s on thursday morning, and, um. you can show up, or mom, or you and mom, or neither of you, just... just know i’ll be there to talk about everything. you know, moving forward.”

 _moving forward?_ richard thinks, and the closest thing he’s felt to hope springs forth since they came back to an empty house and a note in a crib.

“so, um, i’ll be there. ready to talk, and listen, and—and i hope you are too. or not. um. if you don’t show up—“

 _not a chance in hell,_ richard thinks.

“—then i, i understand. i mean, it’s not like—i haven’t exactly been an upstanding model of communication, for... longer than i’d like to admit,” patton says.

someone says something that richard can’t hear well enough to unparse.

“right, right, um—voicemail limits, got it, i think my time’s running out.” 

_no, no, no—_

“uh, logan’s healthy—well, he’s got colic—but he’s healthy, and safe, and happy, i think, and i... i am too. and despite, well, _everything,_ i... i’m actually having a really good holiday. and i hope you are too. so. merry christmas, dad. i love you.”

the line goes dead. richard lets out a shaky breath, staring at the little red light going dead. he should—he should call emily, immediately. he should see if there’s a possibility of booking out kennington's so it’s just him, his wife, his son, and his grandson. he should see if there’s a way to transfer this voicemail so emily can hear it. he should call the maid to ensure that patton’s room is dusted and logan’s toys are all up to snuff, because he’s open to _talk,_ he’s open to _come home._ he should... he should do a great many things.

there’s only one thing he wants to do, but he can’t. so he’ll have to do the next best thing, small and desperate and _clinging_ as much to his son as it may seem. so he hits the button that will make the voicemail play again.

and he knows it might be pathetic, but it’s the closest thing to a christmas miracle he’s had in years.


End file.
